The Last Ride Home
by McGrizzle940
Summary: When Ethan, a 21 year old from rural Kentucky, gets sucked into a universe that he thought only existed in the virtual world, he must keep his wits about him, and ensure he and his friends don't fall prey to the despicable ilk that inhabit Los Santos. The streets of LS are harsh though, and a young girl who can't remember much may be his only comfort in these trying times.
1. The Perfect Storm

**Chapter 1: The Perfect Storm**

" _There are no extra pieces in the universe. Everyone is here because he or she has a place to fill, and every piece must fit itself into the big jigsaw puzzle."_ – **Deepak Chopra**

Every time a lightning flash would illuminate the Pittsburgh skyline the power inside the dorm rooms fluttered, occasionally resetting the power and causing some poor shut-in to lose hours of his life on an obligatory game that meant nothing in the real world. This was the case for full-time student, part-time drunkard Ethan McDavid, with the game in question being none other than the bank robbing, hooker slaughtering Grand Theft Auto Five. The two had been almost inseparable since the games homecoming in 2013, but not in the way that a fish is inseparable from water, just more so in the way a human is with shelter – they'll always be back at some point to keep safe from the hard times. The real addiction for Ethan came in the form of liquor, always pulling him back in and then dragging him to the bottom of the barrel.

Ethan was born in a rural Kentucky town and had always believed that he would be bent over in the coal mines as his father and grandfather before were until the day he died, but much to his surprise this wasn't the case. In 2012 the young man found out through his school that because of his financial situation, and the area in which he lived, that the government was more than willing to support his college aspirations with a full ride grant that would cover all his expenses. His mother couldn't have been happier, but for Ethan it was less than thrilling. For many the thought of working in the mines or driving a semi would be something like a prison sentence, for Ethan, however, it actually seemed like a pretty nice way of going about life. He wasn't big on the industry jobs that required hours of droning behind a computer screen day after day until he could finally retire, and when the time came to decide it was more of an obligation he felt to his mother rather than a dream he longed for. That July he found himself settled in at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh studying Hotel and Restaurant Management, what he assumed would be a relatively easy degree that would keep his mom off of his back.

Now, almost eight quarters into his stay, Ethan found that the only thing for him to do in the concrete prison that was the city of Pittsburgh was to play video games and drink copious amounts of alcohol. Luckily, he had the company of a close group of friends, Mark, Jack and Connor, who he had known since he first arrived. The group was thick as thieves and always had one another's backs, a trait that Ethan was grateful for after a falling out with his most recent significant other. Truly the closeness even of the friends he had back home couldn't compare to the bond the four had. The group was as diverse as they come, each bringing to the table a different quirky feature, and a different crippling vice.

The storm had picked up, and as Ethan sat in his computer chair looking at his television screen, and the 'no internet connection' help box, he knew that there was no chance of him getting onto Grand Theft Auto this night. Switching off the Samsung Ethan stood up and begin walking to the refrigerator on the opposite side of the living room. The dorm was cluttered and wires ran from computers and televisions that lined the walls like immovable sculptures set in stone. Dishes were piled beyond the brim of the sink and flowed onto the countertops, littering bits of day old pasta and a cake someone's mother had sent back with them. Probably Jack's.

He opened the fridge and found that the shelves were almost bare, save for a half-eaten loaf of bread and a jar of pickled eggs that had been squatting in the apartment for as long as Ethan had. On the bottom shelf though was exactly what he was looking for, a freshly smuggled, untouched six pack of Miller Lite. Though the Art Institute was a dry campus it was by no means difficult to smuggle a bottle of Jack Daniel's or small pack of beer past the disinterested security guards in a back pack. The only thing that was easier was buying and selling that mischievous little green herb known as marijuana.

As Ethan reached towards the shining amber bottles that had been lulling him to partake of them, he stopped and thought to himself that if the internet was down and the television wasn't working, then what's the point in drinking the light stuff? Instead, he closed the refrigerator door and opened the freezer hatch, revealing seven popsicles, an ice cube tray and a half full bottle of Fireball Tennessee Whiskey.

"No point in letting this go to waste when I get paid in two days," he said to himself, uncapping the bottle and smelling the aggressive cinnamon aroma, immediately followed by the stomach burning sensation of the alcohol hitting his septum.

The glasses were shoddily cleaned at best, still containing bits of dried on food and finger smudges, but they weren't broke and didn't have mold growing on it so they were clean enough for a man who wanted to get gone quick. As Ethan began pouring the liquor he became entranced by the amber liquid flowing around and through the four ice cubes he had dropped in, climbing the edges and rising past the Jolly Roger stamped on the front of the glassware. He was lost in his own mind, and soon found himself bogged down in a swamp of emotions that seemed to rear their ugly head every opportunity they found. If anyone were able to see him standing there they may mistake him for a mannequin. Glazed eyes and a hanging lip gave the impression of a broken toy, tossed aside and forgotten. Just before he began to drift into his affecting stupor the electrical whining of an automatic lock snapped Ethan back from his wandering and drew his attention to the door.

Jack and Mark came into the room soaked to the bone and dripping a puddle onto the floor. In both their hands were black and white paper sacks with a large red logo that red Jimmy John's, a sandwich shop about a quarter of a mile from the Shannon Hall dorms.

"I hate the rain," screamed Mark. "My God damned nuts are literally hiding in my ass right now!"

"Don't be a bitch," scoffed Jack, slapping a limp wrist across Mark's arm and making a strange grunting noise.

"Fuck you, dude," laughed Mark, taking off his coat. He walked across the room and into his bedroom, stripping down to switch clothes into something drier. When he came back out Ethan was leaning against the fridge sipping his whiskey on the rocks, swirling the glass and starring as though he was lost in deep thought. Mark had seen the same look on Ethan's face not long after his break up with Addison, his most recent in a long line of botched relationships.

"You okay, man," asked Mark. His concern appeared more than sincere, and bordered genuine fear for another of Ethan'ss forays into drunken depression.

"Yeah," returned Ethan as he looked towards Mark and cracked a forced smile. "I'm as fine as brandied wine, mother fucker."

"Alright. You just seemed like somethin' was buggin' ya."

"Not tonight. I've got good booze and good company. Both of which will come in handy considering that there ain't no internet."

Mark quickly turned to his laptop on the kitchen table and clicked hurriedly on Google Chrome, typing in random phrases and words just to see if he could spark a response from the browser, but much to his dismay there was nothing more than a lost connection box.

"Dude, are you fuckin' kidding me," Mark asked. An irritated scowl spread across his face and he was soon caught up in a maelstrom of swearing and damning everything in sight. Hell hath no fury like an art student without Wi-Fi. With a look of disgust he shut off the laptop and grabbed his sketch pad that had been lying next to it.

"Guess I'm working on these characters for Life Drawing."

With a thud he crashed down onto a bean bag chair next to Jack and began to angrily scrawl in his book. Ethan was grateful for the timely mention of the temporarily departed internet. He didn't want to have to talk about anything involving Addison, or any relationship for that matter. There _was_ something on his mind when Mark asked, and _she_ was part of the reason for the decided change to hard liquor. Maybe it was the rain that had brought on these sudden emotions.

 _She always loved it when it stormed,_ he thought to himself. _It always meant that I would stay inside and cuddle with her on the couch. Maybe if I would've just held her more and left that stupid bike in the garage she wouldn't have left. Who am I kidding? I'm overweight, an unfeeling prick and an alcoholic who can't even admit to his own friends when something's wrong._

Rolling thunder tore through the dorm and shook the window panes, violently rattling them and knocking one of Mark's Gundams from the windowsill. Ethan looked up and towards Jack who seemed to be entranced by the sight of the falling rain in the fluorescent light of the street lamps. He was still soaked, but didn't care, as was the same with most things for Jack. He was always an anomaly, not just to Ethan, but to Mark as well. A man who seemed to have no love or fear for anything, except for that unexplainable opposite gender that so many times had stricken him with feelings of intrigue and horror. It was clear that Jack felt the same way towards women that all men do, but it was hard for him to properly express himself in a manner that came across as anything more than a friend. It was like watching a prepubescent tween try to ask out a girl for the first time, or a puppy attempting its first walk down a flight of stairs; awkward, frightening and just plain funny at times. Ethan felt for his friend though. Always so close to reaching that goal line, but fumbling during the last five yards.

 _I wonder if it's better that way. Having never known what it feels like to truly love someone. To feel their skin on yours, to taste their tongue in your mouth… to give them your heart and watch them rip it right outta your chest._

For a fraction of a second the power surged and the lights went black, drawing everyone's attention to the ceiling.

"Fuck… sitting… in… silence," Mark broke the quiet. Probably for the betterment of everyone. "Let's put in a movie."

Mark of course chose to watch one of his favorite documentaries, _The Cosmos with Neil DeGrasse Tyson_. It wasn't that Ethan hated the documentary, in fact he was always interested to listen to some of the explanations to the universe's greatest mysteries and its creation, but what was just off-putting about the whole thing was Mark's hardcore Atheist stance that seemed to manifest itself every time a documentary about religion or universal study came on.

Ethan walked over to his computer chair in front of his TV, sitting down in it and spinning a complete three-sixty before stopping. The rain started coming down even harder and the power began to surge in the room, flickering the lights and the television screen. The room suddenly went completely dark and became eerily silent in a matter of a few seconds. Nothing could be seen and even the outside lights seemed to have gone off.

"God damnit," jokingly sobbed Mark. "All I wanna do is watch TV!"

"Finally, I can get naked without being judged," shouted Jack. Of course he was joking, but there was still that awkward thirty second pause after someone says something strange. "Ya know, this silence sounds a lot more like judgement, just sayin'."

The power returned suddenly and the microwave beeped in the corner of the kitchen, like it was sounding off that it needed to be reset. There was a very slim chance, however, that anyone would be doing that within the foreseeable future. All the power had returned to all the appliances with the exception of two – Mark and Jack's televisions. The two fiddled with the power button on Mark's television for a solid three minutes before they decided that something internally must have gotten fried during the power outage.

"Maybe the breaker just blew," said Jack, leaning back and taking a bite of his sandwich.

"No, dude," responded Mark. "If it was the breaker then all the lights in the living room would be shot. This fucking storm just aborted my TVs young life…"

"What about, Ethan's?"

Ethan rolled over to his desk where his television and PlayStation 4 sat. He picked up the remote and clicked the power button, but to little result. The screen was still as black as ever, and even the little red power dot had up and died entirely. It seemed very strange to Ethan that all the TVs saw fit to up and die at the same time, but stranger coincidences had happened before.

"Guess we're just S.O.L." Ethan remarked before turning back to face his friends.

Then suddenly, and without warning, the 28" television lit up in a blinding white effervescent glow that stunned Ethan, sending him recoiling backward and away from the screen. As he rolled back one of the chairs wheels caught on a loose wire and sent him spilling to the ground, landing on Mark like a 280 pound bag of potatoes. The two grunted and struggled about on the floor before finally separating and jumping up to their feet. Jack was already up and looking wide eyed at the screen, as though it were a predator about to pounce on all three of them. Ethan and Mark gave the same dead-eyed look, as if something was going to happen, and to their amazement something did.

Ethan's PlayStation turned on by itself and began to run as though its very existence depended on it. It began to rotate the disk that was inserted so violently that it made a high pitched whining noise only comparable to the shrieks of a dying infant. Ethan grabbed his ears, trying to block out the blood curdling shrieking, but it only seemed to grow louder and louder the harder he squeezed them.

Suddenly the light from the television screen grew even more intense and began to appear as though it was pulsating.

"Holy fucking shit, dude," yelled Mark. He had curled his already tiny frame up into a ball and squeezed his ears, trying desperately to block out the noise, but much like when Ethan tried the sound only grew in pitch and volume.

An intense wind picked out of seemingly thin air and began to twirl the papers around the room like a miniature tornado, tossing pens and pencils, and sending Mark's desk chair crashing to the ground. The PlayStation was smoking, and the air was soon thick with the smell of burning wiring and scorched circuits, accompanied by an onyx haze that quickly filled the room. The refrigerator fell to the floor and sent food and liquids skirting across the concrete surface.

Ethan felt a slight tingling in his hand and pulled up in front of him so he could see it. Fragments of glass from the whiskey cup had drove deep into hand and wrist when he fell on the floor, and his blood seemed to be almost pouring out of the cuts. He clutched the mangled hand close, tucking it into his stomach and covering it with his other arm. Again he looked at the television, thinking to himself, _maybe if I can shut it off all this shit will stop._

Left hand outreached he began making his way towards the 28 inches of hell, swatting away incoming papers and debris kicked up by the windstorm. The three foot walk felt more like a 300 yard drive through the Dallas Cowboys defense. Each step was a battle, and trying to find proper footing in socks while dodging flailing pens was near impossible, but he pushed through until he finally placed a hand on the edge of the screen. What shocked Ethan even more so than the unnatural windstorm or glowing light was the fact that when he pulled against the television it didn't budge. It was almost as if the entirety of the thing was made from tungsten, and then bolted into the desk.

"Turn it the fuck off," screamed Jack, trying not to be drowned out by the high pitched squealing, which was growing worse by the second. "Hurry!"

Forcing his bloodied right hand forward Ethan reached for the power button, fighting through the pain of the force being exerted on it by the wind. Tears began to form at the corners of his eyes, partially from the wind blowing against his face, and partially from the agonizing pain. Ethan had been in two serious car crashes, broke both arms, a leg, a rib and received two concussions, but nothing compared to the almost ghoulish pain that was ravaging his arm. He was only inches from the button, but before he could press it a spiraling black hole appeared in the TV screen, pulling everything within reach into it, including Ethan.

Ethan's bloodied arm was sucked into the hole, stretching into nothingness in an almost cartoonish manner. There was nothing cartoonish about how it felt though. As his arm stretched it felt as though the limb was being wrenched from its socket, sending enough pain to Ethan's nervous system to cause complete system shock. Within seconds his brain began to scream in its tiny confinements, begging for the torture to stop, sending signals to the poor boy to cut off the appendage before his entire body was gored, and if it hadn't been for the lack of sharp tools and partial paralysis he would've done just that.

The hole began to suck him deeper and deeper into total spacial blackness. The smoke from the PlayStation had filled the room, setting off the alarm that had all but been overshadowed by the sound of the shrieking disk and Ethan's own screams of agony. By the time the hole had reached his shoulder, and his face began to contort, the thought that this might kill him crossed his mind, and suddenly his heart doubled its already rapid pace, but it was too late for any adrenaline to save him. The pain was causing partial blackouts, and Ethan's hand was losing grip on the television.

With one final scream and just before passing out entirely Ethan was swept into the spiraling hole. Mark and Jack watched in horror as their friend was twisted and contorted, screaming and helpless as he plunged into an unexplainable dark hole erupting from a TV.

"Fuck Samsung, dude," shouted Mark, just before the windows shattered, sending glass flying right at both him and Jack.


	2. A Lone Wanderer

**Chapter 2: A Lone Wanderer**

Salt rolled in on the breeze and gulls squalled loudly overhead, signaling others of the remains of possible food scraps and bits of shiny aluminum gum wrappers floating haphazardly about on the tide. Ethan could feel the sand massing around his fingers, the cool air blowing across his exposed face, and more importantly he could feel the entirety of his body without the agony of his ligaments and tendons be ripped from their sockets and tissues. It felt like an eternity that he laid there, eyes closed, just breathing in the serenity of his surroundings and gathering his collective thoughts.

 _If this is the afterlife,_ he thought to himself, _then I guess I didn't get screwed over as bad as I always guessed I would._

As relaxing as it was to simply lay in the sand, Ethan knew that he wasn't in his dorm, and that was an anomaly that needed to be explained to him. Slowly, if at all possible. That's when it all came rushing back to him; the blackhole, the windstorm and his friends screaming. He shot up immediately and felt the sand pour off of him.

When he opened his eyes Ethan was greeted by the beautiful sight of the sun sinking low into the ocean, casting a wide scope of different fluorescent oranges and reds through the atmosphere and reflecting it off the seawater in an incredible spectacle of unfiltered, natural artistry. Having never lived closer to a body of water any larger than a pond, Ethan knew nearly nothing of the oceans or their unbridled beauty. For several minutes he stared ahead, admiring the breathtaking and astonishing wonderment that he wouldn't experience again for quite some time.

He stood up on the white sands and immediately realized that something was amiss. Ethan felt lighter than before, like it was easier to move, almost as if he had suddenly shed all his extra weight. Looking down for his protruding stomach it did not take long to realize that's exactly what he was missing. Almost magically an extra hundred or so pounds had been shed, and Ethan had gained the body of a high school running back. Every muscle was toned and sleek, truly the most average, healthy body that could be found anywhere in the world.

"What the fuck," Ethan muttered to himself, amazed and awestruck at what he was seeing. Like a child with a new toy he ran his hands across every part of this sleek, strange body, feeling every muscle, goose bump and hair. Much to his surprise he had also grown a full head of hair somehow, and his once scraggly beard was reduce to mere chin stubble. Everything seemed so surreal, and Ethan thought that surely none of this could be real. It was, however, as he could feel the breeze blowing on his face, he could hear the gulls calling out. If anything, this was the most real experience he had ever had, and it was magnificent.

He realized soon though that while his new body was highly unexplainable and that he wanted to further examine the reborn him, the sun was sinking fast and he needed to get somewhere where he could take shelter for the night. All around him, however, there was nothing but sand and sea, and a rather steep cliff to his rear. With nowhere else to go Ethan decided that it would probably be best to attempt to climb the rocky outcropping and try to get to higher ground to better asses the situation.

As he reached the top of the ledge, Ethan rolled over and began to pant, looking back down at the beach where he had woken up on not but moments ago. High tide was beginning to come in and wash away the footprints left in the sand, as well as a rather large mound where Ethan had fallen attempting to get up the ledge. If he had woken up just a few moments later Ethan would have been pulled out to sea before he could get off the beach.

Standing and brushing himself off, Ethan found that he was still out in the middle of nowhere, with most of his line of sight blocked by trees. Off in the distance, though, there was the familiar sound of semis J-braking, which meant that a highway must have been nearby. As the sun sank lower and the twilight soon became a shroud of impeding darkness, Ethan felt the urgency to find shelter. The temperature was falling, and it could be felt, but he was keeping a steady pace, heading towards the direction of the growing sounds and sights of cars and lights. Pushing through some shrubbery Ethan found himself beside a highway that seemed to be rather heavily traveled. To his left the glow of city lights broke over the high-top hills that blanketed the skyline, and to his right the highway seemed to stretch endlessly down a path lit only by headlights and street lamps. Assuming that the best way to find someone that could help him, Ethan began his journey down the side of the highway towards the city lights, not realizing that he was about to walk into what would be the most terrifying and life changing experience he had ever endured.

After walking for what seemed like hours Ethan finally came upon a bridge that led into the city, although it definitely seemed like the side of the city he wanted nothing to do with at nighttime. Having no choice but to press on, however, Ethan decided that it would be best to just walk down the hill to the closest road and attempt to find a pay phone or someone willing to lend a hand. As he began his trudge down the hill he began to wonder where he was at even more intensely than he was before. Something about the city seemed familiar, reminiscent of somewhere, like he could recall what he was seeing as though he had been there before, but unable to quite make sense of it.

As he got closer to the streets it was evident that the downtown nightlife was ever so active, and the lusting creatures that stalk the streets at the midnight hour seemed more than willing to lend a helping hand for the right price. It wasn't prostitutes and women of ill repute that concerned the young man, though, as having lived in Pittsburgh for two years had somewhat dulled him to the awkwardness of these late night passersby. Rather, it was the creeping sensation that he knew, at any moment, some drug crazed, smack riddle crackhead could pop out from behind any shadow and have him by the throat, demanding money, or his life. The tension was growing, and the adrenaline began to rush more and more as he darted past each building, eyes shooting to and fro looking for something, anything, that even remotely resembled someone or something looking to do him harm.

Picking up his pace to a modest trot, Ethan soon found himself out of the darkness that surrounded him and instead illuminated by the effervescent glow of a poorly powered and dying street light. More than a welcome relief. The only thing that was even more comforting than the sickly tinge of the dirty lights was the bright neon stream of an open sign shining proudly through a clouded convenience store window. As he approached the door to the shop he took a quick peek inside, only to find that there was no one inside aside from the cashier and a disturbing cutout of what one could only assume to be a superhero of some sort dressed rather queerly in a leotard. Regardless of the creepy standee Ethan chose to go inside, and was immediately met by the refreshing, icy blast of the air conditioning unit.

It wasn't until he was inside that Ethan thought to himself, _do I even have any money?_ Quickly he checked his pants for a wallet, fumbling around until finally he pulled out a dark brown, leather trifold wallet.

 _Well this is new,_ he thought. For years Ethan had carried the same worn out trifold Cabela's wallet that he had gotten for a birthday gift. The same one that had managed to rip a whole in all of his jeans thanks to a button not being sewn into the leather tight enough. This wallet was completely different, though, and when he opened it e couldn't believe what he saw.

"Five hundred dollars," the shocked boy muttered to himself. "Where the fuck did this come from?"

Not only had Ethan nevered carried that much cash on him before, he didn't even currently have that much in his bank account. Dazed and confused he stood there for several moments, shocked, until finally he heard a rather far eastern voice break his internal silence.

"Hey," he heard a man say. It was a thick Asiatic accent, middle aged with slight concern. Turning to the voice Ethan realized it was the store clerk, who was now looking at him with a slightly irritated and confused face. "You okay? What, you ain't neva' seen money before?"

Realizing how stupid, and suspicious, he looked, Ethan quickly responded to the man, saying, "Just surprised at how much I still have left." Ethan forced a chuckle to make it seem a little more convincing.

"Late night out tearing up the town, eh?" replied the man with a snaggled smile. "Oh, I know how that goes. Drinking like a fish, dancing until you're sore and most importantly… impressing the ladies."

"Something along those lines, I'd say." Putting his wallet away and turning to the man Ethan approached the counter and gripped the edge. "Have you got a payphone by chance?"

"Payphone?" The man seemed irritated by the question. "Does this look like 1987?"

Awkwardly the two stood there for a moment looking at one another with blank stares, until finally the man laughed and shouted, "I'm just kidding! There's not one here in the store, but if you go up the road there's an old quarter payphone by a light post."

"Thank you so much," Ethan responded, smiling and chuckling flakily. "Before I go, can I buy a pack of smokes? Noting fancy, just some Marlboro Smooths."

"Come again?" The man seemed deeply confused, furrowing his brow. "Marl- Marblo? What are those?"

"You know, Marlboro Smooths? Menthols?"

"I ain't got none of whatever those are, kid, but I do have some Athena 200's if you're looking for a menthol, but I wouldn't smoke those in public if I were you, that's more fo' the ladies. Here." The man reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a red and white pack. "These are Redwoods newest brand. No really menthol, but they have that spearmint flava'."

 _Redwoods,_ Ethan thought. _Where have I heard that name before? Of course! They're a cigarette brand in Grand Theft Auto!_

A stunned look overcame his face, and Ethan began reviewing everything that he had seem leading up to this point. _The city feeling so familiar, the abundance of prostitutes, Redwood cigarettes, the weird lightning strike. Did I… Did I get pulled into the videogame!?_

"Oh, fuck," Ethan muttered.

"What's wrong?" The clerk look at Ethan again with a curious scowl.

"I know this is gonna sound crazy." Ethan was making strange hand movements, and it was becoming apparent the clerk was less than thrilled with his sudden change of demeanor. "But I need you to tell me what city we're in."

"Is this some kinda setup?"

"No, no setup! I just really need you to tell me what city we are currently in."

"This Los Santos, dumb dumb. What, you fall and bump head when I turned around?

Ethan knew what the store clerk was about to say, but it just seemed so much more impactful coming from another person. He stood in front of the counter for a moment, stunned and sickened by what he had just heard. How was it that he could be in Los Santos, the fictional city in a videogame that he was attempting to play just moments before the incident with the lightening flash?

 _That's it,_ he thought to himself. _That lightning storm had something to do with what's going on here. That means that I'm not the only one here, Jack and Mark could've got pulled into the weird portal too. I'll bet they're in here too somewhere. The only question is where?_

"You okay, kid?" The convenience store clerk was staring at Ethan with a disturbed look, and it didn't take Ethan long to realize that the man had his hand on something underneath the countertop. Not wanting to get shot, he quickly responded to the clerk.

"I'll take the Redwood's, and one of those metal lighters. Here's a twenty, and keep the change for putting up with my questions."

Upon exiting the store Ethan immediately took out a cigarette and lit it, taking in a deep, relieving drag of nicotine. His hands were trembling softly while his mind raced, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened to him, and where his friends could possibly be in a city as vile and disgusting as Los Santos. He considered their best case scenario would be that they were dropped somewhere in the Vinewood Hills, where they would at least be able to find a decent hotel to shack up in for the night.

 _How many others did this happen too? I wonder if it was just us? Wait, I just realized what day it was! Connor would have been logging onto GTA for the new update. That means there's a possibility he's in here too._

Conner and Ethan had never been particularly close, Mark had introduced them during their second quarter at the Art Institute and they began to play games together, even going so far as to start their own motorcycle club in Grand Theft Auto. The two had actually made a pretty sizeable club, and garnered a pretty decent amount of respect in the Online community for it. This wasn't just a game anymore, though, it was real, and potentially had real life consequences. Ethan soon realized that he would have to devise some sort of a plan if he were going to find his friends, and fast. One that didn't involve bumbling through downtown Los Santos during the worst part of the night smoking a cigarette.

 _Okay, so let's try to figure out what to do here. I either need to find the guys quick, or try to get my hands on a gun. If playing in this shithole has taught me anything, it's that you're gonna need a gun to survive. But where the fuck am I supposed to get one for $480?_

Ethan was jolted to a halt from his walk, and his cigarette fell to the ground, as someone had ran into him, and rather hard as they had almost knocked him to the ground. That's when Ethan looked up and realized that he had been surrounded by members of the Los Santos Ballas, distinctively identifiable by their unique color scheme of purple and white. It was clear that they were looking to do some serious harm to Ethan, and he understood this well, as they were one of the most aggressive gangs in the game, but this wasn't a game anymore.

Ethan could feel them, hear them and worst of all smell them. They were dirty, a condition of their surroundings of course, but partially their own fault. It wasn't their odor that he was worried about, however. It was whether or not he was going to make it out of this encounter alive.

"Jus' where you think yo' headed to, bitch," questioned one of the Ballas. Stepping out from behind the small crowd of gangbangers, a tall, lanky man with a bandana around his mouth walked to within just inches of Ethan. "Do you even know who's turf you steppin' in?"

"I'm sorry," replied Ethan, terrified and angry at himself for not having been on guard. "I didn't realize this was Ballas territory."

"I guess you fuckin' din't, otherwise yo' little punk ass wouldn't of come the fuck over here."

The Balla was pacing in a circle while he talked to Ethan, anxiously watching him and pumping out his chest every so often as though he was showing dominance. The scene was tense, and the gang members were becoming antsier by the minute. In all, Ethan counted six Ballas, including the man that he assumed was the leader. All were sporting their colors, and everyone had at least one seeable weapon, ranging anywhere from a baseball bat, to switchblades and even a crowbar. There was no doubt that he couldn't try to fight his way out of the situation, he'd be killed in a heartbeat, and running at the moment wasn't an option, as they had him fairly well surrounded on all sides, and he was unsure if any of them had guns. Ethan decided that the smart thing to do would be to wait until a moment when he had ample room to run, and enough cover to duck into if they decided to start shooting at him.

"What we doin' here, Ray," shouted one of the gangbangers, anxious to get in a little unadulterated violence for the night. "I say we kick the shit out 'im, and then take 'is money."

"Naw," said the man who Ethan was assuming to be the Ray the other man was talking about. "I got somethin' way better than just kickin' his ass. Grab this lil' bitch, and make sho' he don't scream."

Two Ballas grabbed Ethan by the arms, kicking him in the back of the legs and forcing him to the ground, while another came from behind and blindfolded him with a black bandana, then bound his arms. Kicking and screaming to let go of him, Ethan looked like a squirming worm, blindfolded and bound, being drug through the alleys of Los Santos by six gang members on what could very well be his last few minutes alive. Though it proved frivolous, he continued to kick and wriggle, figuring that if they were going to kill him that he would make it as hard as possible to get him to wherever they were going. In his struggling the bandana slipped down slightly, and he could see bits and pieces of where they were going. Concrete walls, a dark tunnel and then the feel of water as his knees were drug across the cold ground. They were by the Los Santos River, under an overpass just before it emptied into the ocean. There wasn't a doubt in his mind now, they were going to kill him, then toss his body into the river to be sucked out to sea by the swift morning currents.

One of the gangbangers removed the blindfold, and Ethan could see Ray standing behind the other man, a pistol in his hand with a suppressor attached to it. They didn't want anyone to hear their nefarious work.

"You got that coola' ready, G," Ray asked the Balla standing next to Ethan.

"Fo' sho'," he replied.

"Alright, then. Let's get this shit on the road, nigga."

Ray swaggered up behind Ethan, who was now turned and facing the mouth of the Los Santos River that emptied out in the murky grey waters of the LS coast. He pressed the suppressor against the back of the young man's head, and cocked back the hammer of the pistol, a Hawk & Little Combat Pistol chambered in 9mm. Ethan was visibly shaken, and his entire body was trembling uncontrollably with fear. Sweat beading on his brow and heart racing, he tried to deny what was happening to him, telling himself that everything was going to be fine, that he was in a video game, and that he would respawn somewhere perfectly fine. There was no way of knowing that of course, and in the back of his mind he knew that if they killed him he could very well simply cease to exist, but he didn't want to believe that he was going to die as some back alley statistic. He couldn't believe it.

With the metal of the suppressor coldly pressed against the back of his skull, and his heart racing fast enough to put Secretariat to shame, Ray decided that he would offer Ethan, the man whom he had only met moments ago, and who he was about to kill for no reason, one last moment of solace.

"Any last words," Ray questioned, pushing the pistol tighter against Ethan's head. "Anything at all befoe' I paint the concrete red?"

Without hesitation, without second guessing himself, Ethan blurted out the only thing he could think of at the moment.

"Why!?"

"Why," questioned Ray. He scoffed at Ethan, chuckling and looking around at the other gang members, as though the question that he was posed had been the punchline to a poorly constructed joke. "Why the fuck do we do anything? Money, ya chump ass bitch."

"But why!? Why are you doing this? How does this get you money? I've been in this city for less than two hours, how could I have pissed someone off _that_ bad in two hours?"

"Nah, it ain't like that. Ya see, I got some dog with the big nuts come and start wavin' this stack of bread in fronta' my face, and he says all I gotta do to get this shit is bring him some po' foos' guts and shit. So I figured, 'why the fuck not' right? We cap bitches all the time, so why not just cut em' open and make a little extra on the side. Easy as fuck, ya know what I'm sayin'?"

"Jesus Christ, I knew this game got dark, but I never thought it was this fucked up."

"Oh, this ain't no game, bitch. This shit's as real as it gets! Now if yo done askin' punk ass questions, I've got a check I'd like to get cashed, ha ha!"

Ray pressed the gun tighter against Ethan's skull, and the rest of the Ballas drew quiet, anxiously awaiting their payday at the cost of a human's life. It almost seemed inconceivable that a human could be put into monetary value, but this was Los Santos, and Ethan knew that it takes a special kind of crazy to survive for any extended period of time in San Andreas County. In the moments before Ray, some gangbanger that had only existed in a video game hours ago, decided to pull the trigger, a sense of acceptance and calmness washed over Ethan, as though he was at terms with what was about to unfurl.

 _What kind of a life have I really lived? It's not like anyone's gonna miss me when I'm gone. Maybe my parents, but that'll pass. On the bright side I'll never have to see Addy posting her shit on Facebook or Instagram ever again. I do wish I could tell her I was sorry for the way I acted. Too late now I suppose._

Ethan looked forward, out towards the ocean and watched a lone gull flying against the stormy winds that were coming in off the coast. The sun was just beginning to peek over the buildings to the east, shining its bright, beautiful collage of colors and sending a red glow across the sky.

"Hey, one more question," asked Ethan.

"What," replied Ray.

"Reach into my shirt pocket and grab me a cigarette. I wanna see this sunrise and take one last drag."

Ray nodded, consenting, and one of the Ballas hurriedly rushed over, removed one of the Redwoods and lit up the cigarette. Ethan took in a deep breath and exhaled, then another. As he puffed on the menthol he clutched his hands together and smiled, then he closed his eyes and waited for the gunshot.


	3. The Unforgettable Transient

**Chapter 3: The Unforgettable Transient**

Everyone in Blaine County knew that when the sun went down the only reason anyone had to be outside was either to do no good, or to get themselves killed. It wasn't just the freezing temperatures that made the region so hostile at dusk, but the meth heads, wild animals and gangs that roved the sandy dunes and mountain roads at night, preying on unsuspecting hikers and travelers. The county hadn't always been the drug ravaged crack den that it was renowned for, but rather a sanctum for those looking to live a simpler life away from the distractions and irritations of the city. With the introduction of the methamphetamine industry though the backwater communities soon became nests for thieves and drug fiends. For one woman in particular, however, the encroaching darkness and danger offered sanctum from the marauding group of thugs that had been accosting her ever since she woke up in some run down trailer park. Tired and blanketed in filth, Gwen found herself tucked away inside of a ditch only a few yards from a side road somewhere in the back country of Blaine County, hoping to hop out and catch a passerby to ask for a ride.

The road stretched out for miles in both directions, with nothing to offer except for dirt and darkness, as well as the occasional roving pack of coyotes passing through every now and then, but aside from these sporadic varmint sightings there was nothing of any real note. Gwen clutched at her shoulder, which was gashed open and had just stopped bleeding from a tumble that she had taken a few miles back when she had to jump off a ledge to avoid being captured by her pursuers. The group of men seemed intent on catching her, but for what reason she had no idea, as she hadn't even been conscious long enough to have caused an incident. Her last memories before waking up in the desert were distorted at best, and when she tried to think back to where she came from it caused a great deal of discomfort and mental strain, so for the moment she decided it was best to simply try and get to somewhere safe. Given her surroundings, however, she determined that safety was a long ways off, and she would be lucky to find someone even remotely willing to help. That is, if she found anyone at all.

In all the time that she had spent running, Gwen had seen nary a person in sight, though the area seemed to be abundant in wildlife, ranging from deer, to wild dogs and even a mountain lion that had been stalking some poor doe through a particularly arid patch of brush not far from where she had awoken. The likelihood of finding someone traveling the mountains at night seemed slim, but she couldn't afford to give up hope that some kind stranger would wander her way, and she certainly couldn't afford to stop moving for too long. Peeking her head over the edge of the ditch and seeing no one coming, Gwen decided that her best move would be to hurry along the road, just far enough off the pavement to be able to conceal herself in case something or someone decided to wander along. She stood up and began to stroll down the road, still holding onto her arm, which had all but stopped bleeding by this point, and was more of an irritation than a major concern. If Gwen didn't get it cleaned soon, however, she knew that it wouldn't take long for infection to set in, and that can be worse than simply dying of blood loss.

The poor girl couldn't remember much of where she came from, but she did remember little snippets of her life before waking up in the trailer park. For instance, she knew that she was no older than twenty, having only celebrated her birthday some short time ago. She remembered having worked as a nanny for some family, but she couldn't put names or meaning to the faces and people she remembered. It was as though someone had simply shut off certain parts of her brain, so as to limit what she could and couldn't recall. The situation was less than ideal, wandering down a deserted desert highway, not knowing where she was or where she came from, but one thing was for sure, her stomach certainly knew that it was hungry for a meal and unfortunately for her there wasn't a gas station or diner in sight. Begrudgingly, Gwen marched on, enduring the aching shoulder and temperature drop that seemed to come on abruptly, sending goosebumps all across her body.

 _What I wouldn't give for a bowl of potato soup and a warm blanket right now,_ she thought to herself. It was about that time that she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine closing in from behind, some ways off, but still close enough that she decided it was best to slide in behind a large rock that sat parallel to the road. As the bike drew closer she saw that there was two more riding in tow, staggered just behind the first one, and they were tearing down the pavement pretty quick. Gwen watched carefully from behind the sanctuary of her boulder, keeping an eye on the bikers as they drew nearer, closing the distance she soon realized that these men were from the same group that had been following her earlier, but they seemed to have separated from the pack, probably dividing into smaller groups to cover more ground.

 _Who the hell are these guys,_ she wondered, _and what do they want with me of all people?_

The bikers shot past Gwen at a breakneck pace, not even glancing in her general direction. As they rode by she caught some words on the back of their leather cuts, it read "The Lost."

"The Lost… where have I seen that before?"

With the immediate danger having passed, Gwen decided to press on, trudging through the night in an attempt to find somewhere to at least take shelter until morning, all the while trying to remember why the words "The Lost" sounded so familiar to her, and why she felt a sense of underlying concern when she thought about it. For now, however, her objective was to find someone to help her, and to make sure those bikers didn't find her first.

After walking for some time Gwen's luck seemed to be taking a turn for the better, as she saw what appeared to be the glow of lights in the distance, and that meant there had to be someone around that could help her figure out where she was and get her on the right track home. Taking to a fast paced jog her mind raced as to what the light could be emanating from. A gas station, a house, or if she was lucky, a bar.

"I _really_ hope it's a bar," she blurted out. "It would be even better if it was ladies night!"

Much to her disappointment it wasn't a bar, and she drew closer the amount of lights multiplied, illuminating a long stretch of highway that seemed to go on forever in both directions. Just across the road was a sign that gave directions and told her just where she needed to be headed. The sign read, "South to Los Santos", and then under that someone had wrote in graffiti, "Head north for scenic goat fucking, cousin fucking and the occasional cactus fucking."

"Well, since I'm not too big on cactus _or_ goat fucking, I guess I'll head south to wherever Los Santos is. The only question now is I wonder just how far that actually is."

Gwen trudged down to the freeway, and began walking along the road, eventually happening upon a tunnel that seemed to be void of any method of travel for pedestrians. Exhausted and unwilling to continue on by foot after trekking through the San Andreas wilderness, she decided that perhaps it would be a good idea to try to hitchhike the remainder of the way to Los Santos, although by this time of night she doubted that anyone of any reputable nature would be traveling down her way. Begrudgingly, Gwen decided it was for the best, and began the time honored tradition of sticking one's thumb out in good faith, with the hopes that some kind stranger would happen upon her and whisk her away to Los Santos, and a warm bar. With the moon so high in the sky, however, she was hard-pressed to find anyone coming her way that would lend a hand. That is until a semi pulled over on the shoulder, and the driver signaled her to get in.

The truck was a large, red JoBuilt Phantom sleeper cab with bright, freshly polished chrome gas reservoirs and smoke stacks. The engine rumbled loudly, shaking the ground, and vibrating the loose gravel that the driver had stopped on. As Gwen approached the passenger side cab door she could feel the roar of the engine rattling her stomach, and she soon grew anxious, having always heard stories of psychopath truckers raping and murdering young girls.

 _Why is it that I can't remember where I came from or where I am now, but I can miraculously remember every terrifying story I've ever heard since I was seven?_

Opening the cab door she wondered who, or what, would be waiting for her on the other side, and whether or not they meant to do her harm. The door swung wide open, and sitting in the driver's seat was a bald headed man with a big smile across his face, hardly the serial killer she was expecting, but she supposed that looks can be deceiving. As Gwen climbed into the cab the driver immediately noticed that her arm looked tore up, and was caked with dried blood.

"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed, reaching over and extending a hand to help her into the truck. "Do ya need me to get ya to a doctor?"

"I'm fine," she returned, "just a little tore up from a tumble I took a ways back."

"That looks like more than a tumble, and you look like you've been out here fer more than a few hours, young lady."

The way the man talked, calling Gwen "young lady," and being so keen to offer help, reminded her of her someone she knew, and how he was always so concerned with her safety. If only she could remember who _he_ was. Gwen sat back in the seat and let out a sigh of relief as the heat blowing from the A/C vents waned across her face.

"Don't worry. I'm fine, but thank you for your concern. Sincerely." Gwen tried to sound reassuring to put the man at ease, but he was reluctant to lose his heir of concern.

"Where ya comin' from, exactly, miss," the driver questioned.

"I honestly wish I could give you a straight answer, but I don't even know myself."

"Well, this is hardly the place fer such a young lady to be runnin' about at night without anyone around. Don't ya know there's all kinda wild critters and weirdos out roamin' around this time a night?"

"Oh, believe me when I say I've seen my fair share of both tonight." Gwen paused for a moment, wondering what she should and shouldn't tell the man, then she remembered something that she had completely forgotten about when the man began his line of questioning. "I'm so sorry. I never even asked you your name."

"Shoot, darlin', don't concern yerself none with apologizin' fer that. If you must know, though, my name's Terry, but please feel free to call me Patches, seein' as how all ma friends do."

"Well, Mr. Patches, it's a pleasure to meet you. My names Gwendolyn, but you can just call me Gwen."

"The pleasure's all mine, I'm sure, Miss Gwen. So where exactly ya headed, iffin' ya don't mind my askin', just so as I can have a general idea of where ya wantin' me to drop ya off at?"

"I honestly have no idea where I _should_ be headed."

"Well, by the looks of ya, ya should be headed towards a hospital, but seein' as how yer not too keen on that, I guess it's outta th' question."

"Yes, sir, it is. I guess I'm just headed south, towards Los Santos."

Well, iffin' ya don't quite know an exact location, how's about you let me take ya to a clothes store, and then maybe out fer food. Ya look like yer starved pert near t' death."

"I couldn't ask you to do that. You've done enough just giving me a ride, and I hardly know you." Gwen blushed, and looked out the truck window. The guardrail seemed to be flying by beside them, and as they came out of the tunnel she saw the moon glistening off the water. She thought it looked gorgeous, the stars reflecting back into space, and for a moment she almost forgot about all her troubles.

"Nonsense," shouted Patches, snapping her back to reality. "It's no trouble at all. 'Sides, you remind me of my own daughters back home, and God knows I'd do anythin' fer those two little girlies."

"If you don't mind me asking, how do I remind you of them?"

"It's that red hair of yers. They both take after their momma in the looks department, thank God. Lordy knows they'd of never gotten diddly from my end of the tree. Plus, there's just somethin' 'bout you that makes me feel like I do when they're around."

Gwen was smiling prominently by this point, and blushing like a high school girl whose crush just asked her to prom. Patches seemed like a good man, and that's exactly what she needed at the moment.

"Well," she said, looking at the old man, and realizing for the first time that he had a beard that stretched almost to his belly, "it sounds like they're pretty lucky to have a dad like you."

"Shoot, yer about to make this geezer blush harder'n a dried up Holstein heifer. They're waitin' back at the homestead fer me t' drop this load an' then head on back to 'em. I promised that when I got back I'd take 'em out fer icecream an' a movie."

"That young, huh?"

"23 and 24, but I always treat 'em like they's still my lil' girls. They always will be in my book."

The two continued to talk for another 10 or 15 minutes about everything and anything that came to mind, but Gwen soon found that after her ordeal she simply couldn't keep awake any longer, and fell asleep in the passenger seat. Her head was propped up against the cold glass, slightly smearing what was left of her lipstick across the window, and she began to snore softly. Patches cracked a smile as he watched the crimson haired lass fall asleep, remembering his own daughters, and how they used to doze off in the same manner when they would go on long hauls with him. He decided not to wake her until they got to Los Santos, figuring that she probably needed to rest up after whatever had happened.

Patches brought the truck to a stop several miles out from Los Santos, at a rest area near the Chumash beach, so that Gwen could wash up in the bathroom and get a nice, new set of clothes that weren't shredded and drenched in dried, crusty blood. He leaned across the cab of the truck and put his hand on her shoulder, shaking her softly and whispering, "Wakey, wakey sleepy head. Time t' get ya cleaned up and get some new duds."

Gwen woke up slowly, wiping the drool from her chin and stretching the best that she could in the cramped confines of the semi. She was still in a haze when Patches came around and opened her door, reaching up towards her with an open hand so as to help her out of the truck. Her dismount and landing were less than graceful, but aside from her riding companion and a tattoo parlor stylist lighting up a cigarette in the parking lot, no one was around to see her fumble out of the truck. Looking around at the storefronts she saw very little in the way of people, but the sun was only just beginning to rise, and the shops had been open for barely less than an hour.

"Where are we," she asked Patches, looking at the old man and rubbing the crust from her eyes.

"Just a little ways out from Los Santos, but I figured it'd be best fer you to wash up here rather than in the city. Some fellers down there might try to take advantage of a pretty girl that looks hurt."

"Is it really that bad of a place?"

"Not all of it, but just fer yer sake, I'd recommend avoidin' the badder parts of town, 'specially at night. That's when them street gangs and meth heads come out lookin' fer someone to mess with."

"Street gangs _and_ meth heads? Sounds like just like a fairy tale story come to life."

Gwen sarcastically smiled towards Patches, and he smiled back with a wide, open mouth grin, revealing that he had either been in a few too many bar fights, or he was an avid partaker of chewing tobacco. There were maybe six or seven teeth missing out of the old man's mouth, but Gwen didn't care about that. Patches had proven to be a genuinely caring and respectable guy, two characteristics she had found most folks lacking of since she woke up the day prior, and even though the two had only just met overnight, she already considered him to be a good friend. Perhaps he would even become someone she could depend on in the future if she never filled in the blank spots in her memory.

"Take this." Patches outstretched his arm and handed a wade of money to Gwen, who seemed very reluctant to take it. "Don't try t' tell me ya ain't takin' it, cuz ya are, or I'm gonna walk in there an' pick ya out somethin' myself, and if yer anything like my girls ya ain't goin' like what I come back with."

"Thank you, so much," Gwen said, hesitantly taking the money from the hand of the old truck driver. It was about $75, more than enough to get some decent clothes and shoes, of which she was in particular need seeing as how the sneakers she had on were all but blown out from all the walking and running. She turned and walked into the clothing store, looking back to see Patches strolling towards the end of his trailer to make sure his load was still secure. He had his logbook in hand and waved a Gwen, signaling her to get into the store.

The clerk seem less than interested in the mangled mess that had just walked into her store, and more preoccupied with her cellphone. As the girl pecked away at her keyboard Gwen began to take a look around the store, a Suburban Outfitters, trying to find something worth being seen in. While perusing the stores selections she managed to find a few articles of clothing that she felt might actually make a decent outfit: a pink baby doll tee, a zip up white hoodie, a pair of faded capris pants and a pair of black and tan wedges.

 _Well this isn't exactly the high fashion they're prancing around in on the Parisian runways, but I guess it's not too bad for a thrift store bargain hunt._

As she approached the cash register the young lady on her phone seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Gwen was standing in front of her. After waiting a few moments Gwen finally said something to the cashier.

"Excuse me?"

"What," snapped the woman, not even so much as glancing in Gwen's general direction, eyes still plastered to the piece of plastic in her hands. Not wanting to start trouble for Patches, who was patiently waiting for her outside, Gwen chose not to debate the clerk's rudeness through verbal accosting, and rather chose to remain ladylike about it.

"I'd like to check out," she replied instead.

Begrudgingly, the cashier looked at Gwen and set down her cellphone, crumpling each article of clothing into a plastic bag for no reason other than to be spiteful. "That'll be $48.95. Cash or card?"

With a little spare cash left Gwen looked at the sunglass rack beside the register and grabbed a pair of yellow aviators off one of the hooks, setting them in front of the cashier. After ringing them into the total the clerk again looked at Gwen and said, "That's now $54.99, anything else?"

"Nope," stated Gwen, thoroughly satisfied that she had managed to buy a pair of sunglasses, piss off the cashier further and still had money left to give back to Patches. "But if you could point me in the direction of your bathroom I'd really like to get cleaned up"

"To my left, all the way back. Just try not to get blood on everything, I'd prefer to not have to clean today."

Snatching up her newfound possessions, Gwen wandered into the bathroom at the back of the store, locking the door behind her just in case the cashier decided to be rude and open it up for everyone to see. Taking off her clothes and staring into the mirror she finally realized just how disgusting and dirty she looked. With splotches of blood and dirt all over her face and torso, and grimy dried mud spattered across her legs and midriff, Gwen was a sight for sore eyes if ever she had seen one.

"God, I look so gross," she said to herself, running a hand down her face. "I guess I better at least wash of a little before I put on these clothes."

Wetting a wad of towels, Gwen cleaned herself as best she could, removing most of the dried blood and dirt off her face and arms, but not really able to get that clean feeling she so desperately yearned for. Removing her bra and panties she scrubbed the rest of herself all the way down to her feet with the towels and hand soap. Now clean, and able to see the extent of her wounds, she realized it was mostly benign scrapes and bruises, with the cut on her shoulder that had bled so profusely being little more than a gash no deeper than a half inch and three inches across. A dispenser machine in the corner had tiny bottles of hydrogen peroxide and adhesive bandages for 25 cents apiece, so she decided that it would wise to buy some and clean her shoulder, as well as purchase a tampon, just in case the cut reopened again.

Turning to her bag of goodies she pulled the wrinkled fabrics out one at a time, becoming more aggravated at the cashier, and wishing she had said something rude. Freshly clothed and feeling fresher than when she had went into the bathroom, Gwen threw her old, ratty clothing into the trashcan and strolled out, past the cashier, who was once again buried in her phone, and walked out the double glass doors into the parking lot where Patches was waiting with a bag in his hand. The old geezer was smiling from ear to ear, looking Gwen up and down like a proud father.

"How do I look," she questioned, returning the smile and spinning around on her walk over.

"Like a million big ones compared to when I found ya," Patches exclained. "C'mere, I got ya somethin' while you was in there."

"I hope it's a big bottle of rum!"

"No such luck, girly. Ain't no stores 'til Los Santos 'cept for that convenience store down the way, and I'm too old to walk that far! It's somethin' a little more useful than rum, that's fer sure."

As Gwen drew closer Patches pulled his surprise out of the brown bag, and her heart nearly skipped a beat. With her bright, shining smile turning into a flat, almost terrified look of horror she stumbled slightly and sputtered to a stop ten feet from Patches. Glinting against the rising sun was a small, sleek looking pistol with wood grips and a polished black finish. Patches pressed a release on the left side of the gun and the slide slammed closed without a round in the chamber.

"What's that for?" Gwen's voice was trembling slightly, and Patches could tell that she wasn't completely comfortable with the situation, but he didn't care. He held the pistol in his open palm, it was small enough that his hand almost covered it.

"This is a Shrewsbury SNS chambered in .380 ACP." Patches rattled off the information like it was written on a teleprompter in front of him. By the way he talked and handled the weapon he clearly knew his way around firearms, and Gwen was unsure whether this was a good thing, or bad. "162 rounds per minute with a six round magazine. It has an effective range of about 25 to 30 yards, but starts to lose tremendous accuracy around 30. It ain't a tank killer by any means, but she'll stop a man dead in 'is tracks when ya put one center of the chest."

"Why'd you buy that?" Gwen was a little shaken, but Patches hardly seemed like he had any intention to harm her, and what motive would he have had anyway, she wondered.

"When we get into town I'm gonna be headed fer the docks to drop this load, and I can't have anyone with me when I get there, or they'll throw a hissy worse than any five year old. That means that I'm gonna have t' drop ya off somewhere in the city. Given ya ain't got anyone to get a hold of, don't know where yer from and can't rightfully say ya have a plan, I just couldn't letcha leave in all good conscience without some way of protectin' yerself."

"Patches, listen. I really appreciate the sentiment, but I can't…"

Before she could finish her sentence Patches had Gwen by the hand, looking down at her with sad eyes. "Please, I ain't askin' ya, I'm tellin' ya, yer gonna take this gun. I could not live with myself iffin' I found out anythin' happened to ya and I left ya without anyway t' protect yerself."

"You've done so much already though," Gwen shouted, beginning to tear up at the sight of the old man being so deeply concerned for a stranger's safety. "Why do you feel compelled to keep helping me?"

"Because yer just some poor young thing lost and alone in a world full of anger and hate, and I can only hope that someone would be kind enough t' help my girls if they was in need."

Fighting back the tears that were welling up in her eyes, Gwen decided to concede to Patches wishes, looking him in the eyes and saying, "Alright. I'll take, but only because you look so pathetic you geezer."

Then, just like nothing had happened, Patches cracked an ecstatic smile and grabbed Gwen by the shoulders.

"Well alrighty, then. Have ya ever shot a gun before?"

"I'm not quite sure," Gwen said, questioning herself and trying to remember if she had ever even held one, let alone shot it. That's when she remembered, a few years prior a boy who seemed to be smitten with her took them out to a shooting range for a date. It wasn't the ideal spot for a romantic evening, as Gwen had never been one for outdoor activities, but she did recall the boy letting her shoot a pistol and a shotgun, both of which were far too large for her stature. "Actually, I have, but the guy who showed me was a little more preoccupied with trying to get in my pants than trying to teach me proper technique."

"Well, I can assure ya that ain't goin' happen this time. Here, take the pistol in your hand like so."

Patches held the pistol in his right hand with his finger running beside the slide, and his left hand supporting the right. Pulling the gun up to eye level, he pointed it at a stop sign in the parking lot, with his left side leading his right, and his legs spread shoulder length apart.

"This is how yer gonna wanna hold it if ya ever gotta use it," he stated, looking at Gwen for reassurance that she was listening and taking mental notes. "Don't lock yer elbows completely up, or it'll cause the gun to jump a little more on recoil. Now you try."

He grabbed the SNS by the slide, handing it off grip first to Gwen, who took it and attempted to imitate Patches stance to the best of her ability.

"Yer legs ain't shoulder length apart, get 'em wider or yer gonna wobble more."

Gwen spread her legs slightly wider, feeling herself become more stable.

"Not bad, but yer arms are all locked up. Loosen 'em just slightly."

Allowing herself to untighten her body was a little harder than Patches realized, as Gwen was absolutely terrified of holding the gun, but she tried to listen to him.

"Yer gonna have t' work on that, but don't ya worry, it'll come in time. I do understand this is probably a little bit scary, but it might jus' save yer life. Now let's work on aiming."

Patches walked up beside Gwen and pointed to the post sight on the front of the slide.

This little post is what yer gonna wanna point at whatever ya intend to shoot, but it's gotta be lined up between the two posts in the back, or you'll miss every time. Since yer right handed, yer gonna need t' use yer right eye t' aim."

As the lesson continued Gwen became a little more relaxed with the idea of holding and aiming the pistol, it was the thought of shooting it that terrified her. She remembered the hard recoil from the pistol that she had shot before, and how much it hurt her wrists when it kicked back, and the ear shattering crack of the shot.

"So how hard will this thing kick," she asked Patches. He could see that she was sincerely concerned, and wanted to reassure her that it wouldn't be bad, especially considering that the pistol was only chambered in .380.

"Well," he started, "I ain't goin' lie to ya, it's goin' be noticeable, but it's only a .380 so ya shouldn't really feel much snap to 'er when she bites."

Patches noticed that she felt a little more confident with weapon after hearing that it wasn't going to recoil hard, and he even noticed her tight posture begin to relax. "How's 'bout we call that a lesson an' get back in th' truck. I gots ya a second surprise! 'Fore we get in, though, go ahead an' put this on."

Patches handed a leather holster to Gwen, along with two fully loaded magazines.

"What's this," Gwen questioned.

"It's an inside the waist holster. That'll hold yer gun, and two spare mags. I got ya this bag and two boxes of ammo too, so ya should be set fer a lil' while anyways."

Strapping the holster to her right hip inside her pants, Gwen actually felt a little safer now, especially considering that those biker we probably still after her. As she turned back around to look at Patches, he had his hands curled up in fists, resting them on either side of his hips.

"I've got ya one more surprise," he said to her.

"Not another gun, right?" Gwen poked fun at the old timer, but she knew that his intentions were good, and she truly appreciated that someone cared so much for.

"Nah, just two o' the biggest, greasiest hamburgs' ya ever did see!"

"Oh, God, don't screw with me on this one. I'm so hungry right now I could eat a horse _and_ a goat!"

"Well I guess yer in luck then, cuz I'm fairly sure that joint makes there patties outta one of those."

The two climbed back into the cab of Patches Phantom and sat eating their feast of sloppy fast food hamburgers and grease riddled fries, while Patches reminisced about when he was as young as Gwen, and all the antics he and his friends would get into. He told stories of tipping over cows, lighting bags of dog shit on fire on porches, and Gwen's personal favorite, his fishing stories. She had always wanted to go fishing, but she couldn't remember a time when she had ever gotten to go. A certain sense of wonder and amusement surrounded the old trucker, and an expansive wisdom that could only be matched by the size of the mustard stain on his shirt.

After their meal the two ditched their trash in the Suburban Outfitters' parking lot, and Gwen made sure that when she tossed her cup out of the window that it landed on a certain rude cashier's freshly washed yellow car. Patches put the old semi in gear, and as they rumbled down the freeway with the rising sun glinting off the hood, refracting a gorgeous rainbow of colors across the sunstrip on the window, it was hammer down the whole way to Los Santos.

 _Maybe Los Santos won't be as bad as Patches makes it out to be. I mean, can a city with a sunrise this gorgeous really be so bad?_


	4. The Fool, The Angel & The Princess

**Chapter 4: The Fool, The Angel & The Princess**

Ethan's cigarette had all but smoldered down to the filter, and he knew that at this point he was only stalling the inevitable, so he spat the Redwood into the river, the cherry sizzling the second it hit the water. Ray, who had been patiently waiting for his paycheck to finish one last smoke, let out a deep sigh of relief.

"Jesus Christ," he snapped at Ethan. "Are you finally done? Can I get this shit show on th' road, or what?

"Yeah," replied Ethan, looking back at his executioner. "Thanks fer lettin' me have one last toke, man."

"Contrary to the shit you might be thinkin', I ain't no monster, and this shit sure as hell ain't personal, ya dig? Jus' business, homie. Nothin' but."

The sun was just beginning to peek over the ocean horizon, reflecting off the water into a truly magnificent array of reds and oranges hung out over the deep blue of the shimmering water. The city had finally started to wake up, the sounds of cars rolling past on their way to work blanketed the air, and pedestrians could be heard yelling profanity at one another, the daily post morning ritual in which nearly everyone in LS seemed to partake. Ethan knew that Ray and his crew didn't have much more time to hang around, especially considering they still had to cut out his organs yet, as the local LSPD patrols would be making their rounds down by the river. The Ballas didn't want to get caught about ready to execute a prisoner, especially so with the implications of having an iced cooler and a scalpel would bring. The stage was prepared, the plot was drawn up, and the scene was ready to be played out, a proper analogy if ever there was one considering everything was about to unfold just miles away from Vinewood, and the main character had accepted his fate to take a dive in the first act.

 _Let's do this then,_ Ethan thought.

The crack of a firearm echoed throughout the canal, sending pigeons scattering in all directions, and a flurry of thoughts went sprinting through Ethan's mind, but the young man realized something at the last moment. That wasn't Ray's gun. His was suppressed, not to mention that there was no way a 9mm could make that loud of a retort, not even in the canals of the river. The only other possibility was that someone other than Ray had shot, but Ethan wasn't hit, he never felt the impact of the round, and when he opened his eyes and looked at himself there wasn't a drop of blood to be found. What he did see all around him, though, were the Ballas, including Ray, sprinting for cover wherever they could find it, diving behind small wooden boxes, a wrecked car and even simply lying down on the cold, wet concrete. Beside him lay a Balla, sprawled out and gripping at his chest, dark red blood quickly flowing from under his hand and mixing into the white and purple fabric that he was sporting. Gasping for air with a hand outreached towards his onetime prisoner, Ethan recognized him as one of the men who blindfolded him and drug him the to the river, and now he lay bleeding out on the ground, lung shot and dying, in an ironic twist of fate.

Ray was trying to organize his men when another shot rang out, this time striking a Balla who was taking refuge just next to him, the round tearing through the man's throat and sending him toppling over, writhing in pain and quickly headed into shock. The stunned commander of the motley crew watched on in horror as two more of his gang went down in a pool of their own blood, screaming and crying for help, their only solace being that they would soon be eased of their suffering by death's comforting embrace. With just man one left, Ray decided that it would be best to make a retreat towards a tunnel that led into the subway system not far from them, so standing up and firing a volley in the direction of where he thought the shooter was, he ordered the remaining Balla to make a break for it.

During this moment of intense pistol fire, that seemed almost non-existent due to Ray's silencer, Ethan saw the man who had been skillfully putting down his assailants one-by-one. Popping up from behind a concrete barrier on the far side of the river and drawing a bead on the Ballas was man dressed not in the clothes of a trained killer, but in those of a suburban dad. Sporting a red button up shirt and white undershirt, accompanied by khaki shorts and a full face motorcycle helmet, was a man wielding a semiautomatic marksmen rifle with the utmost of ease, steadying his aim against the wall and popping off another shot. The round found its target in Ray's shoulder, sending the frenzied gangster tumbling to the ground clutching at his arm. Ray's henchmen sprinted over to him, grabbing his wounded superior and dragging him behind a concrete beam.

Ethan, still on his knees with his hands bound behind him, looked back towards the shooter, and much to his surprise the man was waving his arms in an attempt to grab the boy's attention. From across the river he could faintly make out what the gunman was trying to say, but he had to focus intently in order to hear.

"Run you fucking idiot! Get the fuck up and run!"

Ethan saw that the man seemed both frantic and irritated, but he soon realized what he was saying, and his heart began to pound in his chest, picking up speed with each passing second. It was at this moment that he finally understood that while a gunfight was raging all around him, he had been casually kneeling in a puddle, watching the ensuing fight, while bullets rained down around him like lead hail pellets. In an instant Ethan was up on his feet and sprinting towards the direction from which the Ballas had dragged him to the river, but too late he realized that the same man he was trying to escape from was now only a few feet from him, combat pistol pointed straight at the boy's face. Ray had a crazed look in his eyes, as though it was Ethan's fault that the gunman was there, and that by killing Ethan he would strip the sniper of whatever prize he had come to claim, but luckily he was slower on the draw than his opponent on the opposite side of the river. As Ray squeezed the trigger another round slammed into him, sending him to the ground yet again. The shot that Ray had fired whizzed by Ethan at supersonic speeds, whistling past his ear like a mosquito, and sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Immediately he was headed in the reverse direction, determined to get as far away from Ray as possible even if it meant wadding across the LS River, and it did.

Jumping into the water Ethan was greeted by the freezing temperatures which had been hiding beneath the reflection of the sun, sending goosebumps up his spine and chills across his neck. He began his trudge, attempting to slog through the disgusting sludge that had accumulated on the riverbed over the years, but he was finding it harder the further he went, as the river was becoming deeper, and proper footing was hard to find. By the time he had reached the middle of the river Ethan's folly was clear, as he had forgotten to untie his hands which he know needed to traverse the last half of his journey. Forcing his body up and down like a human bobber for roughly two or three minutes he finally made it across the midsection of the river, but still had the remainder of it left to go.

The crossing was slow, and the fighting hadn't died down, meaning that Ray and the remaining Balla had yet to be effectively put to rest. As Ethan finally made it to semi-dry land, he fell to the ground under the weight of his drenched clothing, but his guardian angel wouldn't see him lie down to take a break quite yet.

"Don't stop moving," the gunman shouted, signaling Ethan up the slop of the canal. "Get your ass up here! Fuck, kid!"

Heeding the advice of the man who had been so determined to save him, Ethan stood up and sprinted towards the slope, jumping up it as high as he could before starting his ascent. Bullets ricocheted of the concrete all around him, and the crack of the Marksmen rifle grew more intense with every upwards step he took. Looking back across the river, which now resembled a battlefield latent with corpses strewn across the blood soaked canal, Ethan saw as Ray and his crony limped into the subway tunnel and made their escape. Not something that boded well for Ethan, as this now meant that not only had he made an enemy, but that the bastard had escaped to hunt him down another day. Only this time it _would_ be personal.

As he hopped up over the ledge and slid down behind the barrier, safe at last, the boy who had escaped death twice now began to laugh hysterically, almost in a disturbing manner, as he thought about how lucky he was to have made through that ordeal, and the timely nature of his guardian angel. Remembering the sniper who had just been so brazen as to save his skin, Ethan began to thank the man, and praise him for his good deeds,

"Hey, man, I don't know who the hell you are, but you have no idea how grateful I…"

His heartfelt thanks was cut short as Ethan turned to where the gunman once was and, instead of seeing his savior, he found only the scattered remnants of shell casing that were strewn about the sniper's improvised nest. Standing up and looking around in an attempt to find some trace of the man who saved him, Ethan found only a note, held into place on a trashed tire by a heavy combat knife. Walking over and squatting down to the tire, he began to read the letter:

 _If you're reading this then you actually managed to escape those ill-mannered hooligans that so badly wanted you dead. I don't know what you did to provoke them, but anyone who can get under the skin of one of the two largest street gangs in LS that bad after only having been here for a few hours is either a complete badass, or an idiot. Either way, my associate and I are glad to see you made it. I can't reveal who I am right now, and I apologize for our quick exit, but you can be assured that assuming you made it, we will be watching. On the reverse of this note is an address, follow the directions closely, and when you arrive go to the backside of the building. You'll find a little gift from my friends and I, all yours free of charge. Farewell for now, and try not to die._

As Ethan read the note he realized that there must have been two men present at the shooting, and while one covered his escape, the other hastily scribbled down this note. While he was grateful for the assistance, the content of the note made him slightly squeamish, as even his saviors seemed unsure whether or not they were going to get him out alive. Nevertheless, it was a good day. He wasn't dead, and apparently he at least had allies in the city, but there was one tidbit of information that disturbed Ethan.

 _If they knew I had only been here for a few hours,_ he thought to himself, _then that means they'd been watching me ever since the convenience store. How though? Other than the hookers and that clerk until the Ballas showed up there was no one else around, and those girls looked like they could barely hold themselves up, let alone a rifle._

As Ethan stood wondering about the mysterious individuals, or group of individuals, who had just saved him after stalking him through town, he began to hear the sound of police sirens blazing through the street, bearing down on him from all sides. Not wanting to trade in his wrist ties for handcuffs, he quickly bent down and swiped up the note and knife, not wanting to leave any clues as to where he went, and he bolted for an alley across the street. He ducked in as the first cruiser arrived on the scene, but Ethan was already on his way to wherever the mystery note would lead him.

Having made his escape from the LSPD officers, who were by this point probably scratching their heads trying to piece together what events unfolded by the river that left four dead in a shootout, Ethan was approaching what he assumed to be the destination that his mysterious new acquaintance had directed him towards. Normally his HUD would have had a GPS tracker leading him towards whatever location he put in, but this wasn't a game anymore, and that meant that he had to do things the old fashioned way and ask people for directions. This would have been hard enough in any normal city, but Los Santos was by no means a normal city, and the pedestrians were less than thrilled to be approached by a seemingly hysteric man soaked in odorous water, and reeking of gunpowder. After an hour or so of wandering he finally found the place, though. It was a small gas station located in Little Seoul, just off Vespucci Boulevard, and the place seemed to having a thriving clientele. Ethan hadn't come to admire the success the owner seemed to be basking in, however, and following the instructions that the note had given him he walked around the back of the gas station, shocked at what he saw.

Tucked in behind two dumpsters, both covered in grimy, disgusting refuse and God knows what else, he found a pristine, candy apple red Western Motorcycle Company Bagger, complete with hard saddlebags, full fairing and a set of enhanced, slip-on shotgun exhausts. The bike was gorgeous, completely washed and waxed, with the chrome polished to a lustered sheen, and the leather seat rubbed with what Ethan assumed to be mink oil to soften it. Everything about it seemed perfect, and if what the note had said was true, it was all his. Realizing that there may be more to the motorcycle than he realized, he walked over and grabbed the key from the ignition, unlocking the hard bags and pulling out a small cloth sack from one of them. Inside was another note, and underneath that was a pistol, a phone and a license.

Pulling out the note he began to read it, assuming that it was scrawled by the same man considering the handwriting was so similar. It read:

 _Hopefully you've made it this far, and if so then I'm sure you're shocked by what you found. I wasn't sure if you knew how to ride one or not, but it was the quickest set of wheels we could find in a pinch, so you better learn quickly. Inside that bag is a fake ID, don't worry about getting caught, I designed it myself so it's completely fool proof. From this point on if you're pulled over you'll be known to the LSPD as John Hill, a dock worker from south LS. The gun is for you own protection, as to whether you chose to use it or not, well that's entirely up to you, but considering the situation from which you just came I'd highly recommend keeping it, and the phone is untraceable, even to myself. I put a GPS scrambler in it, although it is an older model so it also prevents you from using the GPS on the phone. I won't bore you any longer. Be safe, and don't worry, we'll be in touch._

Folding the note back into the bag and placing it back in the Bagger, Ethan wondered who these men were that they could afford to just leave a brand new motorcycle unguarded at a gas station for a man they hadn't even met yet, and just what they could have procured given _more_ time. A few names came across his mind from in game characters, but whatever plan they had seemed too secretive and complicated for any of them to come up with. One thing was certain, though, and that was that Ethan's luck finally seemed to be looking up, having taken a vertical nosedive upon his arrival. As he sat on the bike it took him back to the memories of when he used to ride his custom bobber around his hometown in Kentucky, and he couldn't wait to start up the Bagger and hear those pipes purr.

Jamming the key back into the bike he squeezed the clutch, hit the ignition switched and throttled the bike. It sounded magnificent. The pipes rumbled deeply, and when he pulled back on the throttle they would vibrate and grumble, rattling the dumpsters and sending shivers up Ethan's spine. It felt good to be back on a hog, and this girl was definitely a hog. Moving it from side to side he guessed that it had to weigh every bit of 900-950 pounds, a slight bit heavier than his bobber back home, but he had rode bigger bikes and certainly wasn't afraid of the challenge.

"Well then I guess first things first," Ethan said to himself. "Time to buy some new clothes and then start looking for Mark and Jack."

After having stopped at a small clothing store near Del Perro, Ethan was finally dressed in clean, fresh clothes and didn't feel like a drowned rat that had been drug through a sewage pipe. His new leather jacket was still a little stiff, but that would adjust the more he wore it, which seemed like it would be always considering he didn't have a wardrobe anywhere, or even a place to live for that matter. Tucked into his underarm, inside the concealment of the leather jacket in a body holster, was his newly gifted sidearm and two fully stocked magazines. The gun itself was a Hawk & Little .50, which was more than enough stopping power to take down any threat that decided to rear its ugly head, including a certain gang member who had just narrowly escaped with his own life less than five hours before. Ethan wondered where Ray was hiding now, what hole the rat had crawled into with his henchman, and whether or not he was rallying a posse to hunt down the paycheck that got away. Plus the mystery sniper who not only put down an entire execution squad, but put a hurting on what Ethan assumed was a high ranking Balla was probably on that shit list as well.

Ray wasn't a concern for Ethan at the moment, however, as he would undoubtedly run to ground and lick his wounds before even considering conceiving a revenge scheme. For the moment, his focus was on trying to find out whether or not his two friends had been dragged into this mad world with him, and if they had just where they were hiding at, or if they were even alive at all. Ethan hadn't been in LS for more than a day and already he had almost been the victim of a gang attack, so he couldn't even imagine what his friends may have been going through. Without any leads and with no one in the city to turn to, he decided that the best course of action might actually be to ask around town and find out if anyone had seen anything during the night that might imply more people from the outside world had arrived in the city.

Walking out of the convenience store, a cup of coffee in hand, Ethan saw what looked like some young punks lingering around his bike, potentially looking for an easy score to trade for cash at a chopshop. As he drew closer, instead of young kids, what he saw were to fairly muscular men in leather cuts checking out his sweet new ride, and it was pretty obvious they had taken a shine to her. He rubbed his left armpit against the pistol, making sure that it was still wedged in place, and he began to approach the two men.

"Can I help you boys," he said to the two men, his nervous eyes hidden behind the lenses of his new hornet yellow riding glasses.

"Just admirin' this sweet machine ya got here, friend," responded one of the men, a large heavier set individual with a thick mustache, and an equally thick Blaine County accent. "It ain't everyday ya get to see somethin' so beautiful."

"Yeah, she's a beaut'. Got er' fer a steal." Ethan decided that being a pompous ass wasn't going to make him friends with these guys, and a little dark humor never hurt anyone before.

"I can imagine," said the second man. He was scrawnier and shorter than the first, with a clean shaven face and shoulder length hair, but he still had plenty of muscle on him. "One of these new Baggers cost a fortune just stock, and you already have an aftermarket exhaust and forward control rig on it. How'd ya get it?"

"Got it from a friend who thought I'd appreciate it a little more than he would."

"Wish I had me a friend like that," shouted the first man, laughing and shoving his hands into his pocket. "I don't think we properly introduced ourselves. I'm Quick, and this little twelve year old lookin' mother fucker is Skid."

"Nice to make your acquaintance, gentleman. My name's Ethan."

As the three men shook hands, that's when Ethan realized the men had the patches of one of the most notorious bike gangs in Los Santos on their chests: The Lost and Damned. When they turned around again for one last glance at Ethan's Bagger he saw their three-piece-patch, and realized that he may have just stepped into a pile of shit that he would be wise to wipe off as soon as possible. When Quick turned around it revealed that on the left side of his vest, just under his name patch, was another patch that designated him the Vice President of the LS chapter of the Lost, a man Ethan was sure that neither he, nor anyone else, wanted to cross.

"So what brings you Vespucci Beach way, friend," asked Quick, barring a chewing tobacco latent smile.

"Just wanted to get a drink before I went lookin' for my friends," Ethan returned, now eager to stay on the outlaw's good side, if he even had one.

"They missin'?"

"Nah, I mean, at least I don't think so. More like a case of misplaced individuals in need of finding before they get hurt."

"Well, iffin' ya have a little extra time to talk before ya head off on yer own lookin' fer 'em, why don't ya follow us down for a drink at our clubhouse? I know some guys that would kill to get a look at this princess."

Ethan was nervous, and questioned as to whether or not it would be a wise decision to follow these two back to a place where he could potentially be in just as much danger as he was previously. Against his better judgement, however, and out of a feeling of necessity, he decided that it couldn't hurt to go back for one drink with the two. He also thought that going to a bar and asking around may provide a valuable well of information as to the whereabouts of his friends. If anyone was going to have heard about mysterious activity in the region, it was best to assume that in an MC as large as the Lost, someone was bound to have heard or seen something.

"Sure," Ethan finally replied. "You lead the way."


	5. A New Beginning

**Chapter 5: A New Beginning**

The Phantom slowly rolled to a stop just outside the Long Pig Mini Market a few miles from the docks, and as Patches released the airbrakes Gwen realized that this may be the last time that she'd see the old timer for a while. In the two days that they had been together Patches and Gwen had grown to be great friends, and the thought of having to say goodbye made the young girl well up inside with tears of sadness, but she knew that their time together was bound to end. There was no way she was about to allow herself to become a burden on the aging trucker, and as far as she knew those bikers were still covering ground trying to find her, so putting Patches in their path of destruction was out of the question. For the last time Patches walked around and opened his young compatriot's door, and in a flurry of sadness and despondency she threw herself onto the shocked gentleman, gripping him tight in a hug reserved only for the largest of bears.

Patches returned the sentiment, wrapping his arms around the girl and letting out a grunt as they both were nearly thrown to the ground by the force of impact. They embraced for a long while, and then separated, Patches keeping his hands on Gwen's shoulders, and looking into her eyes.

"You take care of yerself," he demanded with a ragged smile. "Ya hear?"

"No promises," Gwen returned, as a stream of tears ran down her cheeks and soaked into her new hoodie. "I think this gun's giving me a wedgie."

They both laughed, and with one last quick hug they said their farewells. Patches climbed back into his rig and tore off down the road, waving to Gwen and shouting goodbye as a feeling of emptiness took over his body and mind. Almost as though he had left a part of himself standing back at the mini market, but he couldn't dwell on it. The trucker was already running behind schedule, and in an attempt to make up lost time, and get Gwen out of his mirrors, he put the hammer down and sped off.

Gwen was alone again, and a sense of depression had begun to sink in, as Patches had been her only friend in these trying times, and now he was gone. He had scribbled his cell phone number down on a piece of paper before they stopped, just in case the girl he held as dear as his daughters ever needed help again, and Gwen hoped to see him again one day. Just under better circumstances, and hopefully at a bar. As she glanced around it was evident that while she wasn't standing in the greatest part of town, it certainly wasn't the worst, and just ahead there was a sign that said Downtown Los Santos was only a few miles north. With nowhere else to go, and figuring that she wasn't going to find a purpose standing in the middle of the sidewalk like a stump, Gwen decided to take her chances Downtown for now, and began her journey.

As she made her way past the Power Street Chihuahua Hotdogs and onto Elgin Avenue, Gwen realized that just across the street was a beautiful park filled with modern art where she could sit for a moment and collect her thoughts. Looking around before crossing she saw three bikers tearing down the road from the south, swerving in between cars and just generally causing a disturbance for the traveling public. One of the bikers stood out from the other two, however. While the two in front rode dirty, worn out motorcycles that resembled the kind she remembered having scene in old movies, the one taking up the rear was different. His bike was larger, and painted a bright, shiny red, looking almost brand new with the sun glinting off the chrome rocker box. The man riding it didn't look half bad either, dressed in dark denim pants, a slick leather jacket and sharp yellow shades, he definitely didn't mesh well with the motley men leading the band of merry misfits.

As they blasted past her at a breakneck pace she noticed two of the three bikers had the same markings on their vests as the ones in the desert, except this time she was able to read more of the wording. "Los Santos" was labeled across the bottom of their backs, and a screeching eagle with spread wings was located in the direct center. Normally, she would have been concerned that they had seen her, but luckily all the people moving along the sidewalks provided the perfect cover for an average looking woman, and considering the speed at which they were traveling it would be a safe bet they had their attention elsewhere. Gwen was puzzled, and couldn't help but wonder just who these bikers were, and what "The Lost Los Santos" meant.

She pushed the thought to the back of her mind as she began to walk across the street with the collection of pedestrians that had gathered by the crosswalk, patiently waiting like a flock of chickens at the coop door for something to happen. Gwen had never been to a big city before, at least not that she could remember, and she wasn't too thrilled about the idea of being pushed up against and crowded around like animals at a slaughterhouse, but without anywhere to go this is what she had to deal with for now. As the group reached the opposite side of the street Gwen split off from the rest of the pack, making her way towards a hotdog vendor that seemed to be enjoying a surge of customers from the lunch rush. Before he left, Patches had slipped the young girls some money, and with the burger she had eaten earlier that morning finally beginning to digest, she decided that grabbing a bite to eat while she gathered her thoughts wouldn't be a bad idea.

As she walked towards a bench with her fully loaded hotdog in hand, Gwen began to already wonder what her next move should be, aside from devouring her delicious looking lunch. She had enough money to rent a hotel room somewhere for a couple of nights, but without a steady income there was no way she would be able to make ends meet long enough to continue to stay. While a sinking feeling of despair towards her situation began to set in, all around her pigeons swarmed the benches and pavement in droves, waiting expectantly for someone to be kind, or stupid, enough to drop food for them. One bird in particular decided that the best possible seat from which to beg was on the bench just beside Gwen, giving her the cross-eyed look that only a hungry street urchin could successfully implement.

Across the park a middle aged man in a suit sat in a shoddily constructed booth with a poorly painted sign draped over the front that read "Legalize Weed", and with a pitch that could only be described as horrifying at best. As people approached he would offer them a drag off one of his joints, and within seconds they were stumbling about, whispering to themselves and screaming, or they would just run away shouting about aliens and clowns. He kept up this campaign strategy, however, maybe hoping that someone would eventually come along that enjoyed being scared to death by laced drugs. Some of the reactions were rather entertaining, though, as Gwen had watched one woman rip apart her purse, shouting about spiders that had crawled inside it, and then went on to mutilate a squirrel with a high heeled shoe. It was surprising that these reactions hadn't drawn the attention of the police, who she hadn't seen but only twice since her arrival in the city.

…

As Gwen sat in her own corner of the world eating a hotdog that, upon biting into it she found out, was probably best left for the birds choke down, the aura of peace that surrounded her was broken as a man dressed in midnight black clothing quickly sat down on the bench beside her, sending her singed companions scattering. Draped in a thick leather jacket and sporting a black bandana with smoked glasses, this shady individual was more than intimidating, and as he lit a cigarette and took a long, deep drag, Gwen realized that his appearance hadn't been coincidental. She looked him over, noticing a fresh scar running across his chin, which was barely covered by a patchy stubble, and thin lips with no expression.

"Who are you," she inquired, but the man sat silent without even looking in her general direction. Continuing to look towards the ground at nothing he took another drag from his Redwood. "Are you gonna answer, or just sit there like a douche?"

Finally sitting up from his hunched position, the shadowy figure leaned back into the wooden bench, throwing his left arm across the backrest and looking towards the sky.

"Two days I've been following you," he said solemnly. "I've been waiting for you to wander away from that trucker so that you were alone."

Gwen's heart sunk into her stomach and began to race as she slipped into what she thought was a mild panic attack. What he had said scared the poor girl to death, and his resumed silence was only antagonizing the situation, but she knew there was no point in simply gawking at the man in disbelief, so she continued to talk to him, slowly inching her hand towards the gun tucked away in her pants.

"Why? Do you want something, or are you just some sick pervert trying to prey on a lonely woman?"

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart, you're hardly my type. Too preppy."

Gwen was almost taken back by the comment. If he wasn't stalking her to hurt her then why was he after her at all, and what did he mean by "too preppy?"

"What then?"

"I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"If it was just questions you wanted to ask then why didn't you just come up to me when I was with Patches? If you've really been following me you should've approached me at that truck stop, or in the desert."

"I didn't find you in the desert until after that old fuck picked you up, and the questions I have to ask are best kept… private. Just between you and me."

Finishing his smoke and tossing the cigarette butt across the park, the man turned and sat now facing Gwen, staring at her from behind his thick lensed sunglasses without speaking a word. His hair was long, and came down past his shoulders, ending somewhere around his mid-back. He seemed unwashed, as though he had just come from the desert, which he supposedly had, and he stank of sweat and beer.

"Where'd you come from," he questioned.

"The desert," replied Gwen, as she truly had no idea where as she would have meant. "But you already knew that."

"No, where were you born?"

"I don't know, my memory hasn't been that good as of late."

"What country are you from?"

"I don't know, I told you that I can't remember a whole lot right now."

Gwen realized that the man was becoming just as irritated by her answers as she was by his string of questions, but her hand wasn't quite on her pistol yet, so she thought it was best to keep playing along with her interrogator. He rubbed his face angrily, taking in a deep breath through his nose and letting it out through his mouth, which wafted across Gwen's nose with repulsion, reeking of cigarettes and unbrushed teeth.

"Before you woke up in that trailer park where were you at? Give me a state, an address, anything I can work with to figure out where the fuck you came from!"

Gwen's eyes widened, shocked that this stranger, whom she had never met before in her entire life, had known that she was in that trailer park. Her mind raced, wondering if he was the reason why she was there, whether or not he had been one of the men out looking for her, and if he had plans to take her back. By this point her hand was firmly gripped around the SNS pistol strapped to her waist, but now she was curious, wanting to ask a few questions of her own.

"How'd you know I was there," she snapped, growing more anxious by the second.

"I asked you a question first," replied the man, now in a deeper, more aggressive tone.

"No, you'll answer me."

For a moment they both sat in complete silence, waiting for the other to make a move or say something, until finally the man broke and said,

"When you woke up, before those men started running after you and shouting, do you remember hearing gunshots?"

Gwen strained herself trying to remember what had happened that night. Even though it was only the night before last it was hard to recall every detail, as she was still in a haze upon waking up, and barely had enough sense or motor control to start running when armed thugs showed up shouting death threats. As she pushed herself bits and pieces began to come back to her, but she was having a difficult time remembering sounds and smells. What she did remember, however, was a thunderous explosion illuminating the night sky and knocking some of her assailants to the ground in a flurry of fire and shrapnel that was sent rocketing through the air.

"Were you the person who caused the explosion," she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"Well at least you remember something," he said with a snarky attitude. A slight smirk crossed his thin, pale lips, and he looked towards the bench. "Yeah, that was me. Not exactly the most subtle of escapes, but I suppose it worked regardless of the unwanted attention I garnered."

"Okay, so my next question is why are you asking me all these weird question, and what's your interest in me?"

"Listen, I know this is going to sound strange, and that you're probably going to want to leave, but I need you to hear everything I have to say. Alright?"

"Fine, but you only have a few minutes, then I'm leaving."

"Right… The world that you're living in right now is a complete and utter bullshit lie. Two days ago in the real world I was sucked into a black hole that appeared in my television during a lightning storm, and I was transported into this one. When I woke up I had been dropped in the desert not knowing where the fuck I was or how I had got there, and wouldn't ya know that laying in the dirt not but a few feet away from me is this redhead passed the fuck out. That's you, before you ask. I stood up and checked to see that you were even still alive, and seeing that you were okay I started looking around for anything that could help us. That's when I realized that whatever the fuck portal sucked me in had tossed me right into the hangout of one of the most notorious, formerly fictional, motorcycle clubs that was ever conceived in a video game; The Lost and Damned. Long story short, I ended up getting into a shit storm I couldn't handle, and when I tried to double back for ya you'd already ran, so I stole one of their bikes and started trying to track you down. I almost had you back at that tunnel under Zancudo, but then you climbed into that truck and I knew I couldn't get near you until that old bastard was gone. Now here we are."

Gwen couldn't believe what she had just heard, and she certainly didn't want to. The thought that they were living in some fake world designed within a video game seemed preposterous, and the man seemed to have more than a few screws loose. When she looked at his face, though, he seemed to have thoroughly convinced himself that he was right, but she wasn't exactly inclined to believe him one way or another.

"So let me get this straight," she said looking at him with a tinge of humor running across her face. "You expect me to believe that you and I were drug into a video game, and that everything around us is just pixels?"

"Polygons, actually," he replied. "The only problem is that I can't find any hard evidence that this a game. Everything looks, sounds, feels, smells and even tastes real, but I know that this is just a game. I've played it hundreds of times, it's not real."

"You're crazy. You're fucking crazy, and this conversation is over."

"No, just please try to believe me."

"I've tried, and there is no way that this is a video game. These people have feelings, emotions of anger and compassion. How many video game characters have empathy and fear?"

"Trust me, I know how it sounds, but I just need you to remember where you came from, and then you'll believe me."

"And I've already told you that I can't remember where I came from."

The duo sat in silence for a moment, no noises aside from the normal sounds of the city buzzing around them at midday. The mystery man realized that Gwen really couldn't remember anything, but Gwen knew that he wasn't going to let the conversation end in a manner that didn't get him the answers that he wanted. Leaning back the leather clad man took out another cigarette and lit it with a flick of his lighter, taking a long drag and staring off into the direction of the man who was trying to gather signatures for his petition. By this point, however, Gwen was growing tired of his crazed rantings, and she wasn't going to linger around for much more of his insensible babble. Standing up, and keeping a hand on her pistol, she began to back away from the man, a decision to which he wasn't too keen.

"Where do you think yer going," he demanded to know, standing up into a haze of cigarette smoke, furious that the woman would even dare to consider leaving yet.

"Away from this nonsense," Gwen shouted back, anxiously awaiting his response with a tight grip around her weapon.

"If you just try to remember where you came from you'll know that I'm not crazy!"

"You just need to get away from me!"

The two had begun to draw the gaze of a handful of onlookers, gawking at the strangers who were arguing over God knows what, but in the city of Los Santos a simple argument is something to take concern with, as murders have been known to happen for much more subtle reasons. The man wouldn't back down, however, and he began to walk towards Gwen in a rather foreboding and intimidating manner, causing her to become much less confident in her ability to effectively control the situation. Feeling that all her other options were spent, and not wanting this lunatic to get within arm's reach, she reluctantly drew her weapon, and remembering what Patches had taught her levelled the barrel right at the man's head. Immediately he halted his approach, and took a few steps backwards, a furious scowl sprawling across the length of his face, and with a disgusted grunt he threw his arms aside.

"Shoot me then, you stupid bitch," he shouted, "Just fucking shoot me! Or are you too big of a pussy!?"

"Leave," Gwen demanded in a shaky tone, "Just get out of here."

With a furious snort and a furrowed brow the strange man stormed off in the direction from which he came, mounting an Steel Horse Zombie and speeding off down the road in a fit of rage. Gwen had loosened her grip on the pistol, and her arm now swung by her hip as she watched the motorcycle disappear out of site, completely oblivious to the fact that all around her a crowd had been gathering, and at the site of the SNS being drawn, someone had called the police. As the sirens drew closer she finally regained her composure, and with the immediate threat of the stranger dealt with, she now realized that it would be in her best interest to disappear before the police arrived. At first it only made sense to stay and explain what had happened, but with no license, cellphone, or permits and armed with a gun, Gwen soon realized that her best option was to make a hasty exit.

…

Having made her escape via way of Vespucci Boulevard and then heading east, Gwen soon found herself traveling the streets of East Los Santos, and unfortunately for her it was approaching that time when it became dangerous for a lady to be alone at night. The encounter with that madman earlier was the only thing on her mind, however, and as she wandered further south her subconscious was taking a trip of its own, trying to recall any events before she woke up in the trailer park. Nothing was coming to her, though, and before she realized how far she had walked twilight was upon the city, and the streets were becoming eerily vacant. Pedestrians leaving their blue collar jobs at the factories and mechanic shops were replaced by empty streets, speckled only by the night life that could be expected in one of the more poverty stricken sections of Los Santos. Hookers and gang members wandered casually past Gwen, nervous about making any threatening moves as the LSPD patrols were making their final rounds, but once the sun went down and the LSPD lowered their patrol counts the city would belong to the criminal underworld once more, and then no one would be safe.

Remembering what Patches had said about LS getting pretty dangerous at sundown Gwen began looking for a place where she could dive into and ride out the night. A bar or nightclub would do, and she would even have the chance to grab a drink that she'd been trying so hard to get her hands on. With the sun sinking lower she picked up the pace, and was at a slight jog by the time she stumbled across a hole in the wall bar with enough motorcycles parked out front that it made a dealership look like show and tell at an elementry. Hogs of every shape and size were lined up in a long row stretching down the street for what had to be at least twenty or thirty bikes, and the bar itself seemed like a pretty lively joint, with heavy metal music and laughter flowing out into the empty streets. As Gwen contemplated whether or not it would be a good idea to just waltz into a biker bar dressed like a common street urchin, a low rider filled with more than a couple Latino men began to turn down the street, and without another thought she walked right through the front door.

The scene inside could only be described as chaotic at best, as men with huge guts and muscles draped in tattoos were chugging beer by the gallon, spilling at least a quarter of each glass onto the floor as they attempted to reach their mouths. To get a breath of fresh air seemed near impossible, as cigarette smoke filled the room and the dull, wet smell of motor oil hung thick off most of the men. Gwen stuck out like a sore thumb, but aside from a few interested glances when she first walked in nobody seemed to mind her arrival. As she wandered aimlessly down the bar, looking around at all bikers cheerfully boozing and laughing, she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. On all the jackets and vests of the bikers was the lettering "The Lost Los Santos", and Gwen immediately thought that she needed to get out of the bar quick. She was on her way back to the door when suddenly a man as wide as he was tall stepped in front of her, a towering hulk of muscle and fat if ever there was one.

"Where ya headed to, sweetheart," he said in a drunken slur. "I don't think I've ever seen _you_ in the clubhouse before?"

Gwen was petrified, unable to move as the man brandishing a beer mug began to look her over like some woodworker looking at a log before cutting into it. Her legs began to quiver as the world around her seemed to be blocked out by fear and inky darkness, leaving only the two standing across from each other.

"There you are!"

A female voice shrieked through the loud music and the man looked towards the location of the shout as Gwen felt two hands grasp her around the waist, and a brown haired woman laid her head on Gwen's shoulder.

"Sorry, Tony," said the woman, "but this one's all mine."

"Fine," said the man who Gwen was guessing to be Tony. "Yer just lucky yer so cute Olivia, else I'd of just taken 'er from ya."

"C'mon," said Olivia to Gwen, "Let's get you back upstairs where you belong."

Taking Gwen by the arms and turning her towards a flight of stairs, this brown haired vixen named Olivia seemed to know all too well that Gwen was out of place entirely, and that if she hadn't stepped in the girl may well have ended up leaving in worse condition than when she came in. As the two continued up the stairs the smoke gave way to cleaner air, and a slight smell of perfume could be picked up wafting down the long hallway at the top. Olivia had let go of Gwen's arms, but was now leading her down the hallway by her hand until they came to a door that permeated the scent of lavender and vanilla. Upon entering the room the two girls were greeted by the gaze of three more women, who, like Olivia, wore leather jackets and vests, sporting ripped denim jeans and a few piercings.

"Girls," said Olivia with a smile, "I'd like you to meet our newest momma."

"Momma?" Gwen was confused, and still in a little shock as to what had just happened downstairs. Just moments before she was being accosted by a member of the gang who was trying to hunt her down, and now she was being introduced to a group of women who resembled '80s rockers, and being referred to as a "momma".

"Just play along," softly whispered Olivia. "I'll explain everything shortly, and hopefully get you out of here."

"It's nice to have a fresh face around here," said one of the women, a thin blonde with a nose piercing wearing a denim vest. "My names Casey. This is Dana and Noel."

"It's very nice to meet you," replied Gwen with a somewhat forced smile. "My names Gwendolyn, but you can just call me Gwen, I guess."

"Alright," exclaimed Olivia, "If you girls don't mind Gwen and I have some things to discuss."

Pushing Gwen through the group of women, Olivia took them into another room connected to the one they were just in, locking the door behind them and letting out a sigh of relief as she propped herself up against the door.

"So," started Olivia. "I think it's pretty safe to say by that attire you're probably not one the guy's old ladies, are you?"

"Old ladies?" Gwen seemed lost, and a puzzled look was all Olivia needed to understand that her assumptions had been correct.

"So how'd you get in here exactly?"

"I just walked in. The door was open and I wanted to get off the streets, so I thought a bar seemed like a good place to hang around for a little while."

"Well, the only problem with that plan is that this isn't a bar. It's the Lost Brotherhood's Los Santos Chapter clubhouse, and you little missy just waltzed through that door like ya owned the joint. Not your fault though, these guys always forget to lock up when they get shitfaced."

"I didn't realize… I'm sorry, I didn't mean t…"

"Don't' worry," Olivia cut her off mid-sentence, starting her walk across the room and sitting down on a stained couch in the corner. "The important things now is trying to get you back out of here and home without raising suspicion that you're not actually a new momma."

"What's a momma?"

"New to the life, huh? Well, let's see. I guess you could describe a momma as a girl who takes care of the guys in the club, sorta like a mother. Only, y'know… they do some less motherly activities with them too."

"Oh," replied Gwen, her face blushing red at the thought of what Olivia just implied. "So… are you a momma?"

"Oh, no," Olivia countered with a chuckle and a wide grin. "I was lucky enough to catch the eye of the chapter's new President, so that makes me an old lady."

"I see"

The two girls sat in silence for a moment or two, Olivia wondering what their next move should be, and whether or not it was a smart ide to try and help this stranger any more than she already had. Gwen sat in a chair in the opposite corner of the room, her eyes darting in all directions trying to get a bearing for her surroundings, cautiously planning her next move, and peaking the interest of the woman lounging across from her.

"You're safe in here," assured Olivia, trying to put the poor girl's mind at ease. "I don't know what you were trying to get away from out there, but it'd have to be pretty ballsy to come in here. So where are you from, anyway?"

Gwen chuckled and looked down at her hands, twiddling her thumbs and smiling a tiny grin. "I wish I knew."

"What do you mean?" Olivia leaned forward from her comfortable slouch and gave Gwen her undivided attention, intrigued by what the girl had said.

"I don't know where I'm from. I just woke up in the desert alone. I started hitchhiking and this is where I ended up."

"Wow, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine. I'm just trying to figure out where to go and then try to find someone who can help."

Olivia sat in silence as the minutes ticked by on the wall clock, her heart aching for the homeless girl that sat across from her with nowhere to return to but the harsh streets of LS. Without seeing any other course of action, and hoping that they could somehow make it work, Olivia offered up an ultimatum.

"I can help," she said softly, "but you gotta agree to a few things first."

"What do you mean," Gwen asked, perplexed by what Olivia had said.

"I mean, that if you're willing to stick around and help me with some things, I think that there'd be more than enough space to fit an extra bed into in this room here."

Gwen contemplated this offer for a moment, a fiery cocktail of emotions swirling around inside her. On one hand Olivia was offering sanctum from the harsh street gangs that awaited her outside, and was even giving her a sense of purpose for the time being, however minute it may be. On the other hand, though, she'd be staying in the same building as the club that was trying desperately to hunt her down. It was truly a double edged sword, and there was no graceful way to swing it. Then her mind turned to the man that she had met earlier, who knew where she came from in the desert, and who seemed convinced that the world they were living in was some type of game. The thought of him finding her alone in the dark, with that crazed look on his face, and no one around. That seemed terrifying, and it was at that moment she made her decision.

"I'll do whatever you need, just so long as I'm not a burden."

"Don't worry," responded Olivia. "Ya won't be any burden at all!"


	6. A Rose Amongst the Thorns

**Chapter 6: A Rose Amongst the Thorns**

Ethan hadn't been at the clubhouse for more than a few hours, but already he was making a strong first impression on the roughneck crowd that he was surrounded by. It was the Bagger that had earned him his first few pats on the back and sideways smiles, but when some Vagos thugs thought that they could just stroll into the Lost's clubhouse Ethan was the first into the fray, wanting to make himself seem tougher than he was, and the alcohol was certainly making that easy enough. The atmosphere wasn't what he was used to by any means, and though he had been in a few biker bars there wasn't a single one that seemed to party as hard as the Lost were on an average day. Walking backing back into the bar from a smoke break with Quick and Skid, Quick wrapped his arm around Ethan's shoulders and leaned up against him, leading him towards a table in the back of the room already occupied by two other men as Skid lagged behind at the bar.

"Here," said Quick, slurring his words as the Pisswasser in his mug sloshed to the floor in small splashes. "There's some guys I want ya t' meet."

Sitting down at the small table the two men raised their glasses upon seeing the Vice President, and he in return raised his, again spilling about half.

"Cricket, Tony," Quick exclaimed, "This is the guy I was tellin' ya 'bout, with that candy apple Bagger parked out front."

Ethan reached across the table and shook hands with the two, nodding at both of them in a silent sort of hello, then he sat down and lit a cigarette, adding even more smoke to the already polluted atmosphere in the bar.

"Oi," said the man who had been introduced as Cricket, "So yer th' yank who cracked them Vagos right good, yeah?"

Cricket spoke in what could only be described as a heavily Irish accent, his arms decorated in all manner of tattoos, and he seemed to be missing a few teeth, no doubt a cost of the lifestyle he chose to live. He pointed to his cheek, making a gesture towards the cut that Ethan had received form one of the Vagos knives during the brawl, and smiling twistedly.

"A bunch of pussies," Ethan exclaimed confidently. "Shit birds are lucky I didn't just snuff 'em and call it a night."

"That's the kinda trap I'd expect on a hardchaw like yerself! They're a fuckin' waste, the lot of 'em. If brains were dynamite the tools wouldn't have enough to blow their feckin' noses!"

"Slow you roll there, Cricket," remarked Quick with a chuckle and grin. "Yer gonna have t' excuse Cricket here, the Irish bastard's got anger issues almost as bad as his drinkin' problem."

"Fuck you, boyo," shouted Cricket, flipping Quick a double bird and leaning back into his chair. "Why don't ya ship up the yard and find some nice wagon t' plow, ya redneck?"

Trying to understand Cricket was becoming harder by the minute, as it was clear that his accent hadn't been curbed in the time he spent around the Lost, but he was certainly an interesting character to be around and seemed to be in a constantly light mood.

As the night went on the four men sat and talked like high school friends who hadn't seen each other in years, discussing everything from bikes, to women, and surprisingly enough to Ethan, the men even seemed to be caught up on the current political tides shifting throughout Los Santos. Of particular interest was Cricket's backstory, which he had explained to Ethan when Tony and Quick went on a beer run that seemed to take hours.

Having grown up in Ireland during the 1980s, he was raised on the stories that his grandfather and father told him about their days fighting for the Irish Republican Army, and how they battled for the complete freedom of their country. It was no surprise to anybody that when Cricket was old enough he ran off and joined a branch of the Provisional IRA under the command of Captain Derrick McReary. With a fire in his heart and a cause to back he fought with the ferocity of the clans of old, seeing heavy combat in Belfast and throughout the North Ireland countryside, and eventually becoming one of the biggest bombers to never get caught during The Troubles. After McReary left in 1995, however, his branch of the PIRA fell to shambles, and was wiped out by the British military, leaving only Cricket and one of his friends alive after they escaped by hiding in the woods for six days. After hopping a boat to the United States he committed a string of robberies across the country that eventually landed him in the Los Santos State Correctional Facility for two years. That's where he met a Lost Brotherhood member, and upon his release Cricket set out to join the notorious LS chapter of the Lost, eventually earning his patch after saving the life of the chapter vice president who preceded Quick.

As the night went on Ethan remembered his reasons for coming with the two men across town, and he was waiting for an opportunity to pose his questions without seeming too suspicious or strange. As Quick finished a story about a cultist member he once had a violent altercation with, Ethan saw his chance to ask about his friends.

"So," he began cautiously, "have you boys heard of anything strange going on around San Andreas recently?"

"Strange," questioned Cricket with a cockeyed grin. "What, ya mean like blighters fallin' out the sky?"

The three men laughed hardily, looking slightly enticed by the question that Ethan had posed, and wondering what the boy could have meant by "anything strange. For a moment or two Ethan sat in silence, chuckling to himself about the Cricket's response, and how the man wouldn't be laughing if had known just how right he was about people falling out of the sky.

"I mean, there is the that weirdo out in the desert," started Tony, but at the mention of this shadowy figure the air of lighthearted drinking turned solemn, and the other two men looked coldly at their glasses with glazed eyes, as though they had been reminded of a wound that was best kept closed. Ethan didn't want to try his luck by prying on the subject, but he hadn't made any progress on finding his friends since he arrived in LS, and this seemed like the only potential lead he may have the fortune to stumble across.

"Who's that," Ethan asked, and he was quickly greeted by the cold stare of hate filled eyes from around the table.

"He's a fuckin' lunatic," Quick said sharply, chugging what was left of his warming beverage. "Some asshole that just appeared from outta nowhere a couple nights back. He's been killin' Lost members every chance he gets, and he don't seem to care about the recent divide none either."

"Recent divide?"

"Some shite went down a little time ago," chimed Cricket, staring at the wooden table. "The Sandy Shores charter got licked by some crackhead arsehole goin' on about six months back now. Quite a few of 'em got bumped off too. Afterwards they decided a new change of leadership was callin', and the cunts drew a line in the sand. The blokes who stayed loyal folded into the LS chapter while the remaining headers stayed back and declared war on their ol' brothers."

"What about this madman running loose in the desert," asked Ethan.

"Like yer boyo Quick said, he's jus' some git that's been pluggin' brothers left and right. Calls 'imself the Desert Wolf, but far as I'm concerned he aint nuttin' more than a spud wit' a death wish."

"What's he look like?"

"Ask Tony. He's the only one of us who's seen 'im."

Ethan looked at Tony, who was become visibly more furious by the second at the thought of this "Desert Wolf."

"He's a lanky piece of shit with long hair and a crooked fuckin' smile," Tony exclaimed. "We were goin' on a run out in the desert yesterday, three of us, headed for Grapeseed, when this little shithead rides up beside us outta nowhere, waivin' this shotgun in our faces. 'Fore we could do anything he killed Fly and Matt… just cut 'em down. Only reason he didn't kill me was cause before he could pull the trigger some highway patrol car flashed its lights and took off after 'im. If I ever find that fuck again I will personally rip his head off and shit down his throat!"

Tony slammed his fist down on the table, sending a loud crack across the barroom and drawing the look of nearly every biker in the bar before standing up and storming off outside for a smoke. If Ethan had known how much hostility Tony had towards this stranger he would have never prodded the group with so many questions, but he had already opened the can of worms, and at this point it was more about damage control than anything else. Cricket stood up and chased after Tony, no doubt trying to calm him down before he got into a fight, or went looking for one. Ethan and Quick sat quietly at the table, the both of them fiddling around with their empty glasses.

"Listen," Ethan said, breaking the tense silence that surrounded them, "I didn't mean to start anything with Tony. I was just…"

"Drop it," interjected Quick, pushing his chair out and standing up. "Tony's a big boy, and he'll eventually come to terms with what happened, we'll all have to. For now though I think it'd be best to not bring it up anymore… What're ya drinkin'? Next rounds on me."

Before Ethan could reply a man drenched in fresh blood staggered in through the open doors, shaking uncontrollably and grasping at a wound near his stomach that seemed to be pumping out a mixture of red and dark green by the gallon. The man was babbling uncontrollably, and as Lost members gathered around him to try to help Ethan saw one of the members pry an empty gun from the clenched fist of the poor withering bastard. From amongst the onlookers someone had shouted that the man's name was Frankie, and given that he wore the patch of a Lost MC Brother Ethan thought it was safe to assume that Frankie belonged to the same chapter whose door he just clamored through. The room was a seen of mayhem and gore as they laid the dying man on the bar top and attempted to treat the gushing wound that was pouring blood all across the countertop and onto the floor. One of the mommas, who had been upstairs and come rushing down upon hearing the commotion, was a nurse, and as she applied pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding she tried to reassure Frankie that he was going to be alright.

He may not have been a doctor, but Ethan knew enough about trauma wounds to see that it was pretty evident that unless they got Frankie to an ER soon he wasn't going to make it much longer. Ethan pushed his way through the swath of men that had gathered around their dying friend, trying to get a glimpse of his face, and wanting to do anything he could to ease the man's suffering. Their efforts were in vain, however, and with his final breath, before slipping away from the world of the living, Frankie stared straight ahead at the ceiling, whispering something in a hushed tone to Quick, who was now overtop of the man pressing down on the wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. It was unclear what exactly he had said before his body went limp, but whatever it was infuriated Quick, as the man spun around wildly in a fit of rage, screaming,

"I'll kill 'em! I'll kill every last one of those backstabbing, piss ant, mother fuckers!"

The men that had been closer to the scene had obviously heard what Frankie said, and were immediately up in arms chanting about revenge and justice before the remainder of the bar joined in. Quick elbowed his way through the crowd and made a line for the table where he had just been sitting moments before Frankie stammered in, no doubt going after the pistol he had left lying on the tabletop. As he holstered the gun and began to head for the exit, from the back of the room a heavy oak door swung open and slammed against its hinges, putting a gaping hole in the wall where the doorknob hit. Out of it stepped three men, and upon seeing them Ethan nearly dropped to the ground out what felt like a combination of joy, respect and closure, as standing before him was one of his all-time most memorable and favorite people: Johnny Klebitz.

When Ethan played the main story for Grand Theft Auto Five he saw Johnny stomped out by Trevor Phillips, and it was almost heartbreaking, as Johnny had been one of Ethan's favorite character throughout his short time in the series. It was clear, however, that Johnny had seen better days, as wounds that were undoubtedly inflicted by Trevor's lashing were scarred across his face, leaving his left side nearly mangled. His left eye was a milky white, probably blinded by the severe trauma that it had endured, and his ear looked as though it had been chewed off by a rabid animal, but Johnny was still alive, and Ethan couldn't have been happier, even given the terrible circumstances.

As Johnny walked out of the backroom, a "President" patch sewn to his cuts, beside him was Terry Thorpe, who had clearly also managed to survive his run in with Trevor, although his right forearm looked as if it had been pelleted with buckshot, and his neck was scorched with burn wounds. The man to Johnny's left was a complete mystery to Ethan, however, as he had never seen him before, and he seemed eerily out of place dressed in a gray, fitted suit and sporting shined leather Bulchers. No doubt the three had been in some type of negotiations before the ruckus had started, and Johnny seemed less than thrilled about having to cut their dealings short.

"We'll keep in touch, Mr. Klebitz," stated the man, putting on a pair of sunglasses and strolling past the grizzly scene on the bar top before climbing into a black limousine that had arrived to pick him up.

Johnny walked through he crowd of bikers, each man moving aside and clearing a path to the corpse of their one time friend so that Johnny could see what had happened. The room had fallen deathly silent upon Johnny's appearance, and as he walked solemnly towards Frankie each footstep was like a thundering cannon echoing throughout the clubhouse. When he finally reached the bar he leaned over the corpse and put his hand on the Frankie's cold, pale hand, grasping it firmly and standing in total silence for only a minute before turning back to the crew around him.

"Who did this," Johnny demanded to know, posing the question through gritted teeth. No one spoke, then Quick stepped in front of the crowd and looked square at Johnny.

"It was those pieces of shit from up north," Quick said angrily. "They came down here and ambushed Frankie on 'is way over. He had a gun, but when he got here the mag was spent, so I don't know if he killed any of the pricks er not.'

Johnny looked at the ground squinting through his one good eye, and tightening his calloused hands into fists. It was clear that some form of retaliation was in order, but just riding out and attacking this rebel insurgency on their own turf would mean anyone who volunteered was basically signing their own death warrant. Ethan understood the need for a tactical approach to the situation, but without any weight in the club his opinion meant less than that of even the mommas, who had by now gone back upstairs at the urging of Cricket. Not to mention that he wasn't even a club member, so speaking out of line in the bar may result in him being left worse off than Frankie. As Lost shifted from foot to foot, waiting for their leader to make his decision, a man standing next to Ethan sneezed, drawing Johnny's attention, and just like that his focus was suddenly on the non-member who had been partying with his boys all night.

"Who the fuck are you," Johnny said in a wicked tone, quickly closing the distance between himself and Ethan. "I don't think I've ever seen your face in the clubhouse before."

"That's Ethan," Cricket said in a solemn tone, still stirred by the death of his friend. "He's been hangin' round with us fer the night."

"Shut up, Cricket," he snapped, looking at the Irishman and then back to Ethan. "I asked this kid a question, and I expect a fucking answer."

Ethan hadn't been around many bike gangs, but he knew when he was being mudchecked, a term that referred to when members of a biker club check the character of another person, and this was certainly the most blatant he'd ever seen anyone be about it. Not wanting to seem like he was afraid or risk embarrassing himself by performing poorly, Ethan knew that he had to be quick with his responses, and that every word he uttered needed to be done with the utmost confidence, lest Johnny sniff him out as being weak. Straightening his back and standing as tall as he could without making it seem like he was challenging Johnny's authority, Ethan responded rapidly, retorting,

"Like Cricket said, my name's Ethan."

"Where ya from, Ethan," Johnny questioned, continuing his interrogation. Ethan didn't know what to say, if he told the truth they would think he was insane and kick his ass, but a lie might only provoke further questioning.

"Liberty State," he snapped backed.

Johnny stood in front of Ethan for a moment more, looking the young man over and silently judging him behind a hate filled expression. Gritting his teeth and leaning back to his left side so that his right eye was still on Ethan, the old biker jammed his hands into his pockets and licked his lips.

"So what do _you_ think we should do?"

Ethan was shocked to say the least. The President of the Lost, a man grizzled by time and molded by a lust for violence, had just asked a boy that he knew nothing about, aside from his name, a question that pertained to how the Brotherhood would retaliate to a direct threat from another gang. This was clearly more than mudchecking, and Ethan knew that his answer would carry enough weight to determine how he would be viewed by the rest of the club. He chose his words carefully, and thought for a moment about how to respond.

"They need to be dealt with," he finally said, crossing his arms, "but not in the open, and definitely not on their terms."

"What'd you have in mind?"

"You need a way to draw a lot of them into a small area with little cover. Have your boys laying in wait, and when the time comes you catch 'em in a crossfire. Get as many as you can before they run, and then have a mop up detail ride down the last of 'em."

Ethan could hear the hushed whispers of the Lost talking about what he had just said, and from what he could make out a good deal of them were onboard with his proposed plan. Johnny shifted on his heels for a little while, considering Ethan's proposal and listening to the members around the room weighing in their opinions.

"So," Johnny finally said, "you're suggesting a violent response to our neighbors across the county line?"

"This was clearly a planned attack," Ethan retorted. "They knew when and where he'd be, and then jumped him with an overwhelming force. The only reason he got away was to scare the rest of you. What you need is an appropriate show of strength, something that lets them know you've got the skills and firepower to put them down hard, or at least make it seem like you do."

"And just where would you propose this little ambush?"

"Deep enough in your own territory that they'd have to ride a little ways before they were back out, but out of the city enough that there wouldn't be an immediate police response."

"Interesting."

Johnny looked around the room and saw that he had some thirty-odd Lost members staring at him with dull expressions, waiting on him to make a decision on what they were going to do in response to the challenge the rebels had posed. Without missing a beat, and not letting his wounds slow him down, the biker leapt atop a table, kicking its contents onto the floor and holding his arms out in a "V" pattern.

"Alright," he started. "This is a club, and you're all members, so everyone gets a vote. All in favor of the hangaround's plan say 'I'!"

With an astounding show of enthusiasm nearly every biker in the bar threw up their fist and cheered in agreement with the plan, sending out an echo so loud that it actually seemed to shake Ethan to his core.

"All opposed?"

Not a single member spoke, although it was clear by their faces that some of the Lost wanted more immediate action to be taken. The votes had been cast, and everyone leaned in favor of taking Ethan's more tactful approach to the situation, leaving him a sense of deep seeded pride, knowing that he had gotten the backing of an entire chapter of a biker organization.

"Well, kid," Johnny exclaimed with a grin, "looks like you managed to remain a hangaround for a little longer."

All the men cheered, and Johnny hopped off the table, landing with a thud and staggering back towards Ethan. Quick had crossed the room and was now standing beside Terry and Johnny, who surrounded the young man with an exceptionally intimidating presence.

"Tomorrow you come see me," Johnny stated, then he looked at Terry. "For now we need to get Frankie's body taken care of. Terry, you need to go break the news to his old lady, Quick and I are gonna start getting funeral arrangement together."

"I'm sorry about your friend," Ethan muttered in an overcast tone.

"He wasn't just a friend, he was a brother. I hope yer plan works kid, cause I'm getting real tired of having to put my family in the ground."

"Where are you gonna be stayin' tonight, kid," asked Quick. "If somethin' comes up I wanna be able to get ahold of ya."

That's when Ethan remembered, he hadn't found a place to stay since his arrival in Los Santos, which meant that he'd have to go and find a hotel that wasn't booked and try to rent a room.

"I still haven't gotten settled in anywhere, yet," he responded. "I'm gonna try to look for a hotel room tonight, so I'll text ya once I'm situated."

"There's a spare room upstairs with a couch in it," Johnny said. "You can crash there if ya want, but we've gotta get goin', so just text Quick yer plans and he'll let us know."

With that the four men went their separate ways, Tony disappearing out the front, and Quick and Johnny wrapping Frankie's body in a table cloth, then carrying him out the backdoor. Ethan decided to take Johnny up on his offer to sleep in the clubhouse since he didn't have anywhere to go, and he had to report back to Johnny in the morning anyway, so it only made sense.

As the cleanup operation downstairs began to lighten, and after most of the Lost had headed home, Ethan clambered up the staircase leading to the second floor and found his bedroom behind the first door on the right. The room itself was pretty barren, containing only the couch and a television, as well as an assortment of random articles of clothing piled in the far right corner, no doubt leftovers from the members who had been going in and out all night with some of the girls. It wasn't home, but it certainly beat sleeping under a bridge or in a sleazy, overpriced motel room somewhere in South LS. As Ethan laid down his mind began to wander to thoughts of his friends, who he still had yet to find, and he wondered whether or not they were okay.

 _I hope they're doing alright,_ he thought. _No doubt Jack and Mark have already found each other, ya couldn't separate those two with a crowbar. I just wonder or not whether Connor's here somewhere. Hopefully none of 'em got dumped in the desert with that weirdo running around, and those Lost guys up north don't sound nearly as inviting as Quick and Cricket._

Turning onto his side and closing his eyes, Ethan tried to push the thought of his friends to the back of his mind for the night, just so he could get a decent night's rest, but he found it hard, and it took a while for him to fall asleep. When he finally did, though, it wasn't his friends or family on his mind, but rather the girl he left behind back in the real world, and whether or not she would even realize he was gone.

…

Ethan shot up from his sleep like a rocket mid lift off, his heart beating a mile a minute as the sounds of shattering glass and shuffling feet echoed down the hallway into his room. All the Lost members had gone home for the night, and as far as Ethan knew he was the only person still in the clubhouse at such a late hour, which was more than enough cause for concern in his eyes. Reaching for his Hawk & Little .50, tucked snuggly away inside its holster, he pulled back the slide to about halfway, double checking to make sure there was still one in the chamber, and upon conformation of a live round he quietly released the slide and stood up, slowly moving across the room in his socked feet so as not to make a noise.

As he came to the door, Ethan slowly turned the knob to open it and peeked his head out, checking to see for any movement in the hallway, and attempting to find the location of the sounds he was hearing. At the far end of the hallway, behind a door similar to the one he was using as cover, a light was seen shining from underneath, illuminating the frame and part of the hall. Moving back and forth in the light he saw what appeared to be a shadow skittering about the room and just generally making an unwelcomed racket, so with his gun firmly gripped in both hands Ethan began his slow creep down the hallway, moving heel to toe and trying to control his breathing.

 _What if it's one of those Lost guys from Blaine come down to mess with the clubhouse,_ he questioned, his heart beginning to pound at the thought of opening the door and finding some 200 pound biker with a shotgun lying in wait for him. _Maybe it's that crazy mother fucker that's been killing the Lost. Jesus Christ, what am I about to walk into?_

As he drew nearer the door a strange noise began to come from the room on the other side. It was a voice, only not the voice of a burly biker, but rather that of a woman, and judging by her soothing tone and hushed whispers it was a young one too. When Ethan finally made it to the end of the hall he pressed an ear against the wood and began to listen to the commotion on the other side, hearing only the one woman talking to herself.

"Way to go, Gwen," she mumbled. "You're here for less than a day and you've already broke something. I think Olivia's gonna get more than she bargained for by letting me stay here."

Amongst the sounds of the girl bashing herself for some unknown reason and the clatter of glass being swept into a trashcan, Ethan caught himself wondering just what this girl looked like. At first he wondered if it was one of the mommas who stayed behind, but he had seen Dana, Casey and Noel leave not long after Frankie's body had been carried away, and with no members left there was no reason for any of their old ladies to still be hanging around. He decided that it was best to ask questions later and handle the situation at hand before something happened, so he placed his left hand on the doorknob, and pulling up his pistol to breach the door he took a deep breath before turning the handle and bursting into the room, gun drawn.

When he rushed through the threshhold, totting his pistol and nearly breaking the door off its shoddy hinges, he was surprised at what he found standing on the other side. Clad in nothing but a loose tank top and black lace thong was a young woman, barely into her twenties, holding a dustpan in one hand and several beer bottles in the other. The two looked at one another dumbfounded for a moment, as it was clear that neither one of them were expecting to see someone else in the building, and given the girl's attire she clearly wasn't expecting there to be anyone for quite some time. After the initial shock had worn off and he began to refocus himself, Ethan scanned the room looking for another person, but found only the woman standing right in the middle, still holding the dust pan and bottles, her mouth slightly agape at the sight of Ethan, who looked no more professional than her as he stood in the doorway wearing his socks, a gray tee-shirt and sporting a gun.

Suddenly, upon collecting herself, the girl dropped what was in her hands and bolted across the room towards a small end table, on which was lying a small pistol in its holster and two fully stocked magazines. When he saw this Ethan immediately raised his gun and pointed it straight at the woman's back, shouting,

"Stop, or I'll shoot!"

In an instant she stood motionless on the other side of the room, slowly raising her arms and unintentionally lifting her shirt, revealing a cute little bubble-butt barely covered by a thin strip of lacey black cloth. Ethan began a slow advance across the room, keeping his weapon trained on the girl's back, although occasionally his eyes would wander away from his target, more occupied with the assets that she seemed to have accidently exposed to her captor. Upon reaching her he pulled both her arms behind her back, and forced her across the room to a large recliner where he made her stay while he wandered back across the room to gather her gear. Emptying the magazine from the pistol Ethan realized that she hadn't even had a round chambered yet, and he laid the small handgun on a table that he drug between the two.

"A .380 doesn't have a lot of stopping power," he laughed mockingly. "Unless you intend to shoot dogs and coyotes."

"A headshot would stop anyone," she retorted in an annoyed tone. "Even you."

"You think you could pull off a headshot on the move with someone bearing down on you like that? Even if you hadn't stopped and actually _managed_ to grab the gun, by the time you turned around and drew a bead there already would've been three rounds nestled somewhere in your torso, and they'd of been a lot more unforgiving that that peashooter."

The woman sat in silence, looking at the ground with her crimson locks covering a face that was beat just as red from both embarrassment and anger, though mainly just a sense of disappointment in herself for not having been able to stop her assailant from catching her. Ethan looked down at her from where he was standing, and it was easy to see that she was less than thrilled about being put into a chair like a child in timeout.

"Don't beat yourself up about getting caught," he said reassuringly. "Even if you had the gun it would've been useless to pull it out, seeing as how you didn't even have a round in the chamber."

Her head sunk even lower towards her lap, as it was evident that she was only growing more ashamed of herself every time Ethan opened his mouth.

"So," he muttered awkwardly, "do you have a name? I heard you mention a Gwen or Olivia earlier, are either of those you?"

"It's Gwen," she finally commented begrudgingly, her head still buried low.

"Do you wanna try telling me what you're doing in the Lost's clubhouse at three in the morning with no pants on?"

"Waiting for you of course, sweetheart," she scolded mockingly. "Sorry I didn't have time to put on my face. What do you think I'm doing, dumbass? I'm living here!"

"And you just expect me to believe that?"

"I could ask you the same question!"

"True enough, but I'm not the one in the chair, am I?"

"Listen, as far as I'm concerned you're the one in the wrong here. Olivia said that I was gonna be the only one here tonight."

That was when Ethan remembered that Olivia was Johnny's new girlfriend, who he had just met only hours before on her way out with Johnny, and who he had overheard talking to Johnny about someone staying in the clubhouse. At first Ethan simply passed this off as the two discussing his sleeping arrangements for the night, but it was now evident that Olivia had been referring to the young woman who Ethan was holding captive in a chair. In an instant he holstered his pistol, and taking the woman by her arm he lifted her off the grimy chair and began brushing her off.

"I am so sorry," he said apologetically. "Please don't think that this is how I normally treat ladies. I didn't realize that Olivia was talking about _you_ to Johnny, I thought their conversation was about _me_."

Handing her back the pistol and holster, Gwen snatched them from his hands hastily, and glared at Ethan for a moment, disgusted, before warning:

"You stay here until I get back, or I will hunt you down and skin you like a raccoon."

With an angry grunt she rushed off through a door on the opposite side of the room and slammed it closed, sending bottles that had been resting on a television stand toppling to the floor and shattering on impact.

"You're cleaning that up," she ordered through the wall, and realizing that he was going to have to follow through on her command at some point he began to brush the glass fragments into a dust pan with his hand, patiently waiting on Gwen's return.

…

After Gwen came back out, fully clothed in more form fitting and less revealing apparel, Ethan began once again to apologize for the misunderstanding, and after almost a thirty minutes of tense talks and some vulgar language Gwen had finally agreed to forgive Ethan for his mistake. Now, without the fear of someone skulking around the clubhouse, and with guns holstered, Ethan could see that Gwen was actually a sweet girl, and that she wasn't too hard on the eyes either. Her shoulder length red hair draped over a white hoodie, and her soft green eyes seemed very inviting. Even when the two had been arguing he had notice them, a brilliant contrast against her lustrous hair, heightening her stunning facial features and rounding out her vibrant, if not irritable, personality with a magnificent glow of opulent beauty. As their conversation veered away from their hostile encounter Gwen soon began to open up to the scraggly hooligan, even going so far as to tell him of her exploits in the desert, and how Patches had helped her get to Los Santos.

"So let me get this straight," Ethan laughed. "You wake up in the desert, alone and being chased by some goons, only to be picked up the world's nicest trucker who not only proceeds to drive you to LS, but buys you a gun and a meal?"

"Hand to God," Gwen returned, holding her right hand up as though she were taking an oath.

'Well that certainly sounds like one hell of an adventure."

Gwen had decided not to tell Ethan that the men she was being pursued by were from the Lost Brotherhood, considering that even though the Lost had splintered into two factions that didn't mean that the one hunting her isn't the one who she's now bumming a room from. She looked at Ethan for a moment as a sense of déjà vu overcame her, and she tried to remember where she had seen him before.

"So," Gwen said, shifting on her seat and placing her hands on her knees, "I've told you about me, so now I think it's time for you to tell me something about yourself."

"Like what," Ethan questioned.

"Where are you from?"

"Liberty State."

He hated to have to lie, but Ethan knew that telling her he was from another world entirely, and that they were just in a game, would seem the ramblings of a lunatic, and he couldn't afford to make any slip ups.

"Why'd you come here?"

"I didn't really have a choice. I guess you could say I was kinda forced to come here, although if a pretty girl like you's gonna be around for a while, then I'm not necessarily complaining."

Gwen blushed and turned her head away sporting a girlish grin, somewhat flattered by Ethan's flirtatious, if not rather promiscuous, compliment. Her face was nearly as red as her hair, and she was now looking around the room in an attempt to avoid the gaze of the ruggedly handsome gentleman sitting across from her, but her attempt was in vain, and she soon found herself staring into his entrancing eyes.

"So," she began nervously, "do you have a… lady friend or anything like that here?"

"Nope," Ethan answered looking at the ground, and then back up to Gwen. "Why, were you looking to fill that role?"

"Of course not!"

Gwen's face was even redder than before, and she was now adamantly avoiding eye contact with Ethan, but he was able to see through her attempts to circumvent his playful accusation.

"Well," he said standing up and heading towards the door, "if you change your mind you know exactly where to find me. Now if you'll excuse me, my dear, I have a rather important meeting in a few hours and I would like to get some rest. That is, unless you intend to break more glass."

"No need to worry," she taunted back. "I'll be sure to keep as quiet as a church mouse. You could definitely do with some beauty rest."

After bidding one another farewell and checking a wall clock to see the time, Ethan closed the door and headed back down the hallway to his bedroom to attempt a few hours of sleep before Johnny came knocking. All the while his thoughts were with the gorgeous girl who was only a few doors down, still enthralled by her beauty and magnanimous personality. In some ways she reminded Ethan of Addison, the way she laughed and carried herself in a respectful and slightly coquettish manner, but in others she seemed completely opposite. Gwen had an aura of innocence and vulnerability about her, a side that Addison never seemed to show, or at least not to Ethan. In the same breath, however, Gwen seemed able to handle herself in a chaotic situation, as was proven by her unhindered sense of humor upon being caught by Ethan.

This new girl was a mystery to Ethan, a chasm of curiosity that he intended to explore in great detail, assuming that she reciprocated his feelings. After their encounter, however, she certainly seemed just as intrigued by Ethan as he was by her. Hopefully this new relationship would prove to be more than just a strong friendship, although Ethan tried to remember that he was in an entirely fake world, and that he couldn't allow himself to become emotionally attached to someone he may have to leave behind. Gwen was an anomaly to him though, and he felt that she seemed out of place in Los Santos, that perhaps she was lost like him, and that she needed someone to help her retrieve her lost memory.


	7. Blood In, Blood Out

**Hello to everyone who's been reading my story, and a special thank you to those of you who have decided to favorite and follow Ethan's journey through Los Santos. I'm always eager to hear feedback and responses to my writing style, and I would gladly take into consideration any advice or suggestions you may have in reference to how the story's progressing and what you would like to see. I know that this is ultimately my story, but I think anyone would agree when I say every writer lives for the positive response they receive from their fans and followers, and we're always looking for a way to improve your experience. Just a little heads up, I'll be undertaking a large workload soon, and while I've managed to maintain posting every three or four days the chapters may become a little more spread out. I want to promise that I'll make a post at least once a week, but I just can't make that commitment, so for the next 11 weeks I'll be posting at least once every two weeks. I implore that you stick through this dry spell, and keep coming back for more. As soon as possible I will start posting again every three to four days.**

 **For a little more story focused dialogue now, the next chapter or two will be very Gwen-centric, and will take place during the same time as this one. Hopefully Chapter 8 will be up and readable before Sunday night. I hope you all have a great weekend, as well as a wonderful October and Halloween!**

 **Chapter 7: Blood In, Blood Out**

East Los Santos was abuzz with the rising sun, blue collar laborers on their way to the shipyards and factories scattered throughout the southern LS region, and those shady miscreants of the criminal underworld, who prefer to do their dealings in the dark, were scuttling back to their respective hideaways to await the twilight yet again. In the Lost Brotherhood's Los Santos clubhouse, however, the backroom activities were just coming to full swing, as Johnny Klebitz and his top advisors were gathering in the foyer below to await the arrival of the newest hangaround, and apparent strategical consultant. The rugged bikers talked amongst themselves for a little while, wondering how Ethan planned to go about the task of retaliating against the insurgent faction that had seen fit to take hold of the Lost's Blaine County assets, but more importantly they wondered just where their tactician had gone to, as he wasn't in the room which Johnny had allowed him to shack up in for the night.

After thirty or so minutes of standing around Ethan finally came into the room through the boardroom door, surprising the crew that had gathered around the bar, as they hadn't searched the room nor expected him to be in there. Johnny crossed the room and was in front of Ethan in seconds, an imposing silhouette as the morning sun cut through the pane glass windows and engulfed his figure.

"Everything's setup in there," Ethan announced confidently, sporting a rather cocky smile and ushering the men through the door. "Now I just need the men who can make it happen.

"Remember, kid," said Johnny in a raspy tone, "just because we're listening to your plan, doesn't mean it's the one we're gonna use. And it doesn't mean you're one of us."

The group intensely entered the room, expecting to find some pitiful, crudely constructed drawing of a poorly thought out plan, but instead were greeted by a large map that covered the entirety of the adjacent wall. Dotted in detailed directions, escape routes, choke points and potential ambush locations, all scrawled in red marker, the map contained everything that anybody may pose a question over, and even took note of some that nobody had yet thought of. As Johnny and his team sat down Ethan took center stage at the end of the long oak table, waiting to begin. Standing erect with his chest pumped out, and clad in riding leather Ethan struck quite an intimidating pose, creating a serious air about the room and drawing all attention to himself.

"So where do we start," questioned Quick, who was sitting to Johnny's right side.

"We start here," returned Ethan, pointing to a red square that had been marked near the bottom of the map. "At the Los Santos shipyards. This here is the shipping container storage and tracking area, and more importantly for us, it's where we're gonna launch our ambush against the insurgents."

"Insurgents?" Quick let out a small chuckle and leaned into his seat. "Jesus Christ, I didn't realize we were the U.S. fuckin' Marine Corps about to go and stomp th' shit out some poor goat fuckin' camel jockeys!"

"Let the kid finish," barked Johnny, shooting the club VP a nasty look and turning back to Ethan. "Isn't that a little bit risky, kid? Weren't you the one who said an ambush should be far enough outside the city to avoid the fuzz?"

"I did," Ethan retorted, "but after a little more diggin' I found that the docks provided all the amenities that we need. This location is lightly guarded, open to the general public, has several chokepoints from which we can effectively launch our attack, and the police patrols are relatively light here. By the time we hit them and then skedaddle out of the AO the cops won't even know what direction we headed in."

"Sounds like ya did yer homework," Quick said with a slight grin. "So what's the _actual_ plan here?"

"Right," Ethan started again. "First things first, we need a reason to get the Blaine County crew to come down here."

"Leave that to me," said Johnny. "I've got more than a few reasons that would make 'em wanna come to the docks."

"Stage two then: we'll need to convince them that what they're lookin' for is in one of these containers. Around this point here, lane "D" row "4", would be the setup location."

Ethan pointed to a location on the map that looked like the intersection of four streets with large metal shipping crates on all sides. The deep rows that the crates were stacked in would allow the Lost members to hide themselves away on their tops, while still providing an open sightline to the roads below.

"We need a small team, about eight guys in total, to lie in wait on the tops of the containers, and then when the targets walk into range they'll open up, driving two vans into the road to stop any forward advance. Once they've turned tail it's all a matter of the cleanup teams hitting the last of 'em on their way back to the clubhouse. Looking at the quickest routes in and out of Los Santos, they'll probably travel either the LS Freeway or the Palomino, which means we'll need two teams to hit 'em as they ride out of the city on whatever road they take."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Johnny noted, leaning towards the table and clasping his right hand with the left. "Only problem is that you're not a Brother, which means your opinion don't mean dick."

Ethan's heart sank into his stomach slightly, and he could feel a tight ball forming in his throat from a sense of both disappointment and fear. There was obviously the feeling of failure that he hadn't wooed the club in such a way that they were all patting him on the back and cheering, but he was also afraid at what Johnny had said. He wondered if they had just been leading him on the whole time, getting a good laugh in at a bad joke, and what they intended to do if this really was just an elaborate setup. The Lost had never been known for their sense of compassion or immaculate moral fiber.

"I back it." Terry had finally spoken up, slouching in his chair with arms crossed and a stern, uncaring expression printed across his broad, bearded face. "The kid's got a solid plan, and as far as I've seen it's the first _real_ plan anyone's come up with to deal with these backstabbing fucks."

"Okay," Johnny said looking at Terry, "and if this plan backfires, lands a bunch of brothers on a one way trip in a pinewood box, you gonna take the heat fer this kid's fuckup?"

"Ain't gonna have to, cause our boy's plan is gonna work. Isn't that right, kid?"

Ethan looked at Terry for a moment with a mixture of exacerbation and crippling fear gripping the back of his skull, pinning him in a trance that left him wide eyed and slack-jawed. Then his sense came back to him and he retorted,

"Of course! I can assure you this is gonna go off without a hitch!"

"Well you heard the boy," shouted Johnny, slapping his hands down on the heavy wooden table and standing to attention. "If anyone has any issues with the plan, go fuck yourself. I trust that I can leave you in charge of the final preparations, kid?"

"No problem."

"Sweet. Since Terry decided he was gonna open his fat mouth, he gets to help you brief the boys. Quick'll grab the weapons we need, and I'm off to make a few phone calls."

With that Johnny, Quick and the other officers, who had proven to be more of a waste of space than advisors, headed out the door, leaving Ethan and Terry alone in the large, dimly lit room by themselves. Terry was pecking away at his cellphone, no doubt sending messages to the Brothers he wanted to make up the three teams. As he took down the huge map that he had taped onto the wall hours before, Ethan couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment, having just convinced the President of the Lost that he would not only be able to strike back at the group that had been accosting them for so many months, but that it would send an even stronger message with it. A message that said the Lost weren't just going to lie back and take an unjustified punishment, but that they intended to give whatever was dealt to them right back, and then some.

Terry stood up from his chair, and it was then that Ethan realized just how much of a wall of meat and bone he actually was. Towering in at some six odd feet, the man was certainly no pushover, and the scars that he had obtained during his rumble with Trevor only seemed to magnify the intimidation factor that he had already blown off the scales. As he walked towards Ethan the ground shook under the stomp of his massive boots, and his palms swung to and fro, like two wrecking balls attached to a torso. Approaching the boy, who was clearly some ten or fifteen years younger than he, Terry could see that he caught him slightly off guard with his imposing figure, and that Ethan was now trying to stand tall in order to seem larger. Laughing he slapped the boy on the back, and said,

"Don't worry, kid, we're on the same side… for now. I've got twelve other guys on their way right now, so once they get here I'll let you tell 'em what's about to go down. Cool?"

"Not a problem," Ethan replied, sliding his papers under his right arm. "About how long until they're here?"

"An hour, give or take. So in the meantime let's hit the bar, I'll grab ya a drink and you can tell me a little about yerself."

"No offense, but why the hell would a guy like you give two shits about me? I'm not even a prospect."

"No, yer not, but you are gonna be watchin' my back, so I'd like to know the guy who'll be keepin' my ass from gettin' blown the fuck off."

"Fair enough."

The two stepped out of the boardroom, Terry having to stoop down slightly to avoid cracking his head off the low door frame and they made a straight away for the stools that were lined up around the bar. As they sat down and began to talk, Ethan and Terry found that they had more in common than what they first thought, as Terry had also been raised on a farm, but had left after a falling out with his father. Ethan regaled the biker with tales of his own misguided youth, telling him about the wild parties he had been to, drunken fights he instigated and one night stands. Terry had quite a few more years on the young buck, however, and for every story Ethan told he had two to match it, and they tended to be twice as gritty. Without even realizing it nearly an hour had passed, and as the Brothers began to trickle in, Cricket and Skid being the first two on the scene, Ethan gathered his wits, and began rehearsing the lines he would soon be spouting off to his roughneck soldiers. He was ready for the speech, but he wondered if the men would take him seriously. Cricket and Skid were welcomed faces amongst the crowd, and he knew so long as they backed him, the remainder of the members could be swayed.

…

Ethan sat atop his Bagger on an overpass that looked down upon the Los Santos Freeway, waiting on Quick's call that would let him know that the ambush had ended and where the survivors were headed, if there even were any. While Johnny put Ethan in charge of organizing and planning how the attack would be carried out, he hadn't trusted the young man to help launch the initial assault, and instead demanded that he ride alongside Johnny and the first cleanup crew to assist in dealing with any stragglers. Instead, Quick and several other men, including Tony, had been tasked with initiating contact and informing the other two teams on the locations of the fleeing bikers, whereupon they would then swoop in and finish the job. The anticipation was killing Ethan, as he wanted so badly to make a good impression on Johnny and the Lost. Less than a week earlier the infamous biker gang was only a fictitious conjuration of the twisted minds at Rockstar Games, but now they were just as real as anybody else, and deep down inside Ethan had a burning passion to prove to them that he was somehow worthy of hanging around. The reality of the situation seemed to elude him, as the thought of his friends had vanished behind a veil of masculine testosterone driven urges and a sense of adrenaline fueled, high speed thrills. For the moment, however, the mindless droning at nothing was his biggest challenge, as he just couldn't wait to fire up his bike and tear off down the road following the famous Johnny Klebitz.

Cricket, however, was handling the downtime significantly better than his young and eager counterpart, wedeling a piece of birch wood that he kept in his pocket, and puffing on a thick cigar. The Irishman seemed at ease with himself, as though he hadn't a care in the world, and that just on the other end of LS there wasn't a gunfight taking place in retaliation to a friend that had just been killed. Ethan was almost envious of his composure, and wondered how the other men around him, Terry, Cricket and Johnny, could be so calm and relaxed with an impeding pursuit just on the horizon. A chase that would undoubtedly end in the deaths of members from the Blaine County chapter, or potentially their own.

Suddenly, Johnny's cellphone buzzed to life, and with jolted looks and wide eyes everyone turned towards the chapter President, who grabbed the phone and jammed it into his good ear. Ethan couldn't make out what was being said, but he could hear the sporadic bursts of small arms fire drowning out the voice on the phone, and occasionally the hoots and shouts of Lost Brothers taunting their opponents, who, by the sounds of the conversation, were on the defensive in a bad way.

"Right on, brother," said Johnny, hanging up the phone and cramming it into his right pocket. Cricket flicked his cigar and put away his knife and birch wood, turning his full attention to Johnny and lifting his black sunglasses to his forehead.

"That was Quick," Johnny shouted. "Hayseed's on the run and heading our way, so get ready t' crack some skulls!"

Ethan had decided that he was tired of not having a discernable name for the Blaine County chapter, so in keeping with their rural locale it was voted that the term "Hayseed" would be used to reference their rivals from across the county lines. The four men fired their engines and revved their bikes, checking their pistols and making sure their gear was fitted snug. Ethan noticed something strange about Terry, though, something that he wouldn't have expected to see from such a steeled man with a criminal past. Hands folded on the handlebars of his bike, and with his head bent down, Terry sent up a prayer to watch over the men as they carried out their gruesome task. As his head rose back up, he met Ethan's eyes, and nodded towards the boy.

"A little extra luck never hurts," Terry shouted.

"Do you think he listens to the prayers of people who sin and claim it to be justifiable," Ethan posed.

"He listens regardless of yer trespasses, boyo," answered Cricket, riding between the two with an expressionless scowl. "'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.'"

"John 1:9?" Ethan hadn't read scripture in some time, but he recalled a few of the verses that he had been taught as a boy the _one_ year that his parents made him attend a bible camp. Thoughts of the church were the last thing on his mind, but Terry seemed to be rather devout, or at least when the blessings of a higher power suited his needs.

"Alright, ladies," snapped Johnny. "Enough of women's church group bullshit. Everyone needs to be ready, these assholes could come by at…"

Before Johnny could finish his sentence three bloodied and battered men rode by on an assortment of motorcycles, easily breaking the speed limit by well over forty miles per hour and drawing the attention of the four men who had been lying in wait. Without a word Johnny and Terry tore off down the on ramp and were quickly speeding across the highway, Ethan and Cricket tailing close behind in an attempt to keep pace and slowly gaining ground. As the group began to close on the fleeing bikers they spread across the highway to keep any vehicles from trying to pass them, and then rolled back on the throttle and shot the gap between them and their prey. Ethan's adrenaline began to surge rapidly all throughout his body, everything appearing to be highly detailed and come into complete focus as it flew by at a breakneck pace. All noises, from the sound of his exhausts crackling and popping to the slight valve clatter the Bagger gave off, were coming at him in such intensity that they seemed almost unbearable at first, but were soon pushed to the back of his mind when he saw the trailing Hayseed drawing closer.

Johnny was the first of the pack to reach the other bikers, and he seemed all too eager to dish out some much deserved payback for the slaughter of his charter members. Pulling out his 9mm Hawk & Little pistol, Johnny rode alongside the Hayseed's Daemon, and cut loose with a trio of shots that buried themselves deep in the man's chest and throat, sending him toppling over his bike and slamming hard against the asphalt. Ethan and Cricket had to swerve in order to miss the body that was now skidding down the highway, leaving a blood stained trail of pavement and gristle in its wake. Cricket had a crooked smile running the length of his lips, obviously pleased with seeing the rebel chapter taking a beating for once and not having to worry about which of his friends he might have to bury.

The two remaining Hayseed hadn't been paying much attention to what was behind them, more focused on trying to escape their ambushers than anything else, but upon hearing the gunshots their focus quickly shifted to their rear, where they saw four angry men gunning for them after having just killed another one of their comrades. The lead biker, a gangly looking man, no older than twenty-five riding a yellow Hexer, jumped on the throttle and tore off down the highway, leaving his friend behind on a Liberty Chop Shop Lycan, which seemed a long way from home out in Los Santos. Terry gassed his Hexer, easily catching the slower Lycan and swiftly pulling up alongside the shaken man, who clearly couldn't believe that his friend had just left him alone to fend for himself. Pulling out his Shrewsbury Sawed-Off Shotgun, Terry leveled the hand cannon at the poor man's headed, ignoring him as he begged sheepishly for his life in exchange for information about his club's activities. As he pulled the trigger the right side of the Hayseed's head exploded into a mixture of red mist and mutilated bone fragments, splattering across the highway and jolting the corpse from its upright position straight onto the unforgiving road below.

As the last escapee tore off down the road Johnny opened his bike up for all it was worth and left his crew in the dust, as neither Terry's Hexer nor Cricket's Angel could keep pace with Johnny's heavily modified speed machine. Ethan's Bagger, however, had numerous alterations performed on it before he received it, and had no trouble keeping pace with the enraged Lost President as he chased after their wormy target. After catching back up to the Hexer, and the panicked man riding it, Johnny and Ethan found themselves alone on the final stretch of highway before crossing into Blaine County, where the man's friends were undoubtedly waiting with backup. Ethan unholstered his pistol and rode along the man's right side, while Johnny simultaneously took the left, closing the yellow Hexer in with nowhere to run. Seeing that he was pinned between tow angry bikers, the coward tried to make one last vain attempt to negotiate.

"Don't do this," he pleaded looking back and forth at Johnny and Ethan. "I'll tell ya whatever ya wanna know. Names, shipment locations, fuck I'll even tell ya 'bout the Wolf!"

"Sorry," shouted Johnny over the roar of the three bikes. "No deal. The only thing I want is your ass mounted on my clubhouse wall."

As Johnny raised his gun to finish the final biker off he pulled the trigger and the man cringed with fear, but much to the trio's amazement the pistol didn't go off. Instead, the casing from his last round had become jammed in the slide, preventing the next from feeding and leaving Johnny completely defenseless as he scrambled to extract the stovepipe casing against his jeans. Seeing an opportunity, and completely brushing Ethan aside, the man Johnny was about to kill had now become the assailant, and reached into his jacket, pulling out a Combat Pistol and leveling it at Johnny's head. With a gaze of fear and disgust Johnny cut deep into the Hayseed's eyes as the man began to squeeze the trigger, then, in an instant, a sharp and thunderous crack rang out over the harsh rumble of the motorcycles that were barreling down the road.

Johnny watched in astonishment as blood began to pour out of the other biker's chest and onto the gas tank of his Hexer, leaving a thick trail of crimson that dribbled down the bike's V-twin engine and dripped onto the pavement below. Dropping his gun and clutching his chest the Hayseed lost grip on his throttle, immediately beginning to decelerate and lose balance on his ride as a result. As he sat gasping for air and awkwardly trying to keep planted on the bike, the man soon lost consciousness and went tumbling to the brutal asphalt that was rushing by underneath his bike. His body fumbled and rolled down the road, cracking his skull and legs against the hard surface and finally sending him skidding to a halt face down alongside the shoulder of the highway.

. Ethan sat atop his Bagger, smoking pistol in hand as he shot Johnny a jubilant smile, content that he had managed to prove himself useful on this run, and even happier that he saved the life of a man that he respected deeply. As the two rolled to a stop their compatriots weren't far behind, easing their bikes along at a slightly steadier pace than their friends, who had just raced ahead to finish their mission. Cricket and Terry knew that they wouldn't be able to keep pace with Johnny and Ethan, so they slowed down rather than strain their engines when the two took off, allowing the duo to squelch the last of the fleeing rodents on their own.

"Time t' bring it home, T," Johnny said to Terry with a reveling laugh.

"No doubt," returned Terry, and like a rocket the four men sped away in the direction from whence they had come, leaving a trail of vengeful carnage and death in their wake. A grim warning to their counterparts from across the border who would surely either come looking for their men, or eventually hear of the slaughter on Weazel News.

…

The bar was once again filled with revelry and the buzz of lighthearted cheers and rowdy laughter as the LS Chapter of the Lost celebrated their hard fought battle against the rebellious northern charter that had caused so much pain and suffering. Even two days after the ambush the party hadn't seemed to stop, and only intensified when it was discovered that one of the men who had been killed in the gunfight was the Blaine County Sergeant-at-Arms, the same gangly man that Ethan had put a bullet through. Members congratulated their non-brother comrade, buying him drinks and even offering him passes at their old ladies, but through all this merriment a cloud of gloom and torment hung over Ethan's head. While the action of the ride kept him in high spirits for the hours following, it was the thought of a Hayseed retaliation that weighed so heavily on him, alongside a sinking feeling that he may never locate his friends now that he was caught up in a war between the two Lost charters. To top everything off, he hadn't seen any of the men that he had rode with only a couple days before, as they seemed to disappear into a cloud of obscurity a few hours after returning to the clubhouse, locking themselves in the boardroom and not so much as coming out into the bar except to get beer or food. These actions made Ethan nervous, and he pondered what schemes the President and his "advisors" could be cooking up behind closed doors.

Cricket, who had been the only one not currently attending the extended meeting, walked over and pulled up a seat across from Ethan, slamming his left forearm across the table and splitting his lips in a wide grin. Ethan hadn't noticed before, but Cricket had taken some of the bone fragments caused by Terry's shotgun across his face, and tiny scabs speckled his right cheek, along with a bruise he'd received when making a pass at the old lady of an easily irritable member, who didn't take kindly to Cricket's catcalls. The redheaded Irishman took a long swig of his lager, and set his mug to the table, sending the amber liquid frothing about.

"Why th' long feckin' face, Cowboy?" Cricket, and a few of the other Brothers, had taken to referring to Ethan as Cowboy after hearing of his quick draw kill that saved Johnny's life. Ethan wasn't complaining about the recognition by any means, but the nickname seemed to have a slight tinge of mockery to it, and that was enough to draw a tiny bit of disdain for it from the young man. It was a nickname, nonetheless, though, and he was happy that the Lost seemed to be taking to him in such a positive manner.

"I was just thinkin' about some things, Cricket," Ethan returned with a painted smile, hoping that the biker wouldn't see through his rouse and hear the tone of concern in his voice.

"The kinda things that damper the mood of th' hero o' day?"

"That easy to see?"

"Christ, it's like watchin' a babe what's had 'is lolly stolen by a playground bully. All's that's missin' is the nappy and a bottle!"

Ethan leaned back and chuckled at Cricket, not necessarily at what he said, but just the lingo he used and speed at which he said it. Cricket never seemed to slow down, and his sentences always ran together, never having a set starting or stopping point.

"What's floatin' around in that noggin' o' yours, Cowboy," asked Cricket, taking another drink.

Ethan hesitated at first, anxious as to whether or not he should mention any of what he was pondering to someone who may think less of him for it, but he knew Cricket, and figured that he could at least trust his new friend with a little personal baggage.

"The Hayseeds," Ethan started.

"What of 'em," Cricket questioned with a raised brow.

"They've gotta strike back at some point. We didn't make a major blow against them, just a statement that the LS chapter isn't to be fucked with. If anything they should be really putting on the pressure. Ya know?"

"Jus' between me an' you, that's what Johnny and 'em are in there gabbin' about right now. He thinks that the blackguards are gonna pull their socks up any day an' really get t' reefin' us, but if ya ask me, I say that their already makin' moves."

"Making moves how?"

"Dunno, but if there was one thing I learned in th' IRA, it was that ya can't stop movin', ya always gotta be one step ahead of yer enemy, and they've been in there talkin' fer too long. While they've doddered about Cain's been playin' his hand, no doubt."

"Who's Cain?"

"Blaine County President, Johnny served as VP fer a while under 'im, until the split that is. After that Cain started losin' support, dunno if the feck's even still runnin' th' joint. From what I've been hearing, that prick, the Desert Wolf, or whatever pseudo bullshit moniker he goes by now, well he's been makin' moves in Blaine. Th' kinda moves that would reorganize the Blaine County chapter to put that nutter in a position of power."

"You think that the Blaine County chapter would just cut every tie they have to the Lost and put a lunatic like that in charge?"

"Times are strange, boyo, and if they really are rebellin' against the Lost Brotherhood it would only make sense to completely reorganize. Out wit' th' old, in wit' the daft."

"Listen, Cricket." Ethan looked around the room to make sure they weren't been eavesdropped on by a curious ear. "Before I shot that guy, he said something about 'The Wolf.' Do you think he was talkin' 'bout the same guy you are?"

"Hard to tell, but word to th' wise, don't say nothin' about it. The Brothers are enjoyin' themselves, a welcomed change of tone from the humdrum we've been dealin' with. Let 'em have a bit more fun, 'cause when Johnny comes out that door, we'll all be in for a rude awakening."

Cricket stood up and bid Ethan a farewell, having spied a particularly curvaceous looking momma who had been sitting alone for a time period that Cricket had deemed long enough to warrant her being available. With a hop and a skip Cricket was gone, leaving Ethan by himself again to ponder his thoughts in solitude, and mull over what his friend had said about a potential restructuring of the Hayseed's ranks.

 _If what Cricket said is true, then that would explain the lack of response by the Blaine chapter,_ he thought to himself. _From what I've heard of this Wolf guy, though, he may be a more worrisome threat than we've been dealing with. I hope Johnny's got a plan._

As Ethan finished his sixth pint of beer, having taken up a few offers from the members for a free drink, he found himself feeling slightly buzzed, an odd occurrence due to the high tolerance he had managed to build through his years of liver abuse. Now, however, his new body wasn't quite used to the high level of alcohol intake, and couldn't handle the rigors as his old one had. It felt good, though, to not have to guzzle a gallon of whiskey to feel that tingle anymore, and if anything this newfound low intake level was only a challenge to drink more. Before standing up and meandering across the barroom for his seventh, and likely last, drink, the boardroom door flew open, and silhouetted by the bright lights, like a vengeful spirit come to claim a soul, stood Quick in his leather vest.

With a come-hither finger waggle directed towards Ethan he had commanded the young man's attention, and Ethan was eager to not upset the Lost VP. With a stammer, Ethan stood up and wandered over to Quick, who put his arm around the young man's back, and with a flick of the wrist slammed shut the heavy door behind them.


	8. In Cold Blood

**Chapter 8: In Cold Blood**

Gwen had never been known for her shining morning personality, mainly because her morning personality was nonexistent, instead replaced by a noonish one that preferred not to be kicked awake at hours before even the feral dogs were out and scrounging the streets. That was her old life, however, and Olivia saw fit to take full advantage of the opportunity that had been dropped onto her doorstep. After some violent shaking and a little bit of coxing, Olivia had managed to get the newest momma out of bed and onto her feet, although with dreary eyes and a hunched pose it seemed as though the poor girl could slump to the floor and back to sleep at any moment. Her run in with a young man named Ethan in the wee hours of the morning had left them talking until almost five, only leaving her with a few good hours of sleep before Olivia, her newfound handler or sorts, had come to ruin her sleep and drag her out of bed.

Eventually, she clothed herself, and stumbled into the tiny bathroom that was in her tiny bedroom and brushed her teeth and hair to a presentable degree before returning to Olivia, who had been patiently waiting for her newest recruit. Olivia had brought over some of her old clothes from her wardrobe, and while Gwen was ecstatic to not be viewed as out of place in her overly white and vibrant apparel, it seemed that her new attire fit almost a bit too snug. The young girl had a rather shapely posterior, an asset she had always been appreciative of, and one that she regularly took pride in, but it seemed today that it was to be her biggest inconvenience as Olivia's clothes were proving to be persistently stubborn in trying to fit around it. After a little squeezing and some awkward rolling about the bed, the trousers finally seceded to Gwen's will, and slipped on without further complications. It wasn't until she had them on that she realized with no room left in the waist she wasn't going to be able to tuck away her trusty SNS pistol, a scenario that didn't bode well with her. Looking at Olivia, who had now wasted the better part of an hour waiting on her stalwart ward, she asked,

"Do you by chance have an extra purse?"

"Of course," Olivia returned, wide eyed and laughing with an increasingly impatient tone. "Can I get you some coffee and a biscotti while I'm at it?"

Gwen sat on the bed for a moment, wondering whether or not the woman was being serious about any of what she had just said, and if she was Gwen sincerely hoped it was the part about food. Walking out of the room, Olivia quickly returned with a small black handbag, the color scheme for all her outfits it seemed, and she tossed it at Gwen, who quickly shoved the small gun and what little money she had into the main pocket before standing up.

"I'm ready," Gwen giggled with a tiny smile and slight bounce.

"It's about time," Olivia scoffed back jokingly, looking the girl over to see how the clothes fit her. "A little snug around the waist, but that tee definitely shows off your tits in a great way."

Gwen blushed slightly, looking down and realizing that her cleavage was in full view for everyone to see, and to a lesser extent she kind of liked it being able to showcase herself. As Olivia walked down the stairs to the first floor of the clubhouse, Gwen trailing close behind like a duckling following after its mother, they saw the bar was completely empty save for a single young man who seemed to be frantically rushing about and writing things down on an oversized map. Gwen soon realized that it was the same man from last night, and wobbled over to him, standing just behind him while he scribbled away. He was completely unaware that anyone else was in the room, and as Gwen peeked over his shoulder at the parchment he was writing on he seemed to have a rather satisfied look permanently bolted to his face. Having no idea what he was scrawling or why he was doing so, Gwen stood there for a moment, entranced by what her one time captor was putting so much attention into.

"Whatcha doing," Gwen asked in a rather loud tone, startling the young hangaround and causing him to recoil and gasp with a profane response.

As Ethan turned around he was ready to berate whoever it was that had scared him, until, that is, he realized it was the same shapely young girl from the night before, who was now dressed in a rather exposing tee-shirt and form fitting jeans. Taking a quick surveying view of Gwen, who stood with her arms behind her back and a tentative smile across her face, he stood up and grinned at the young momma.

"Glad to see you actually put clothes on this time," he remarked with a chuckle.

"Fuck you, ass-hat," Gwen snapped back, punching him in the arm twice as hard as she could.

"God damn, girl, and here I thought we were actually friends."

"We can be the minute you stop actin' like a little kid with a hard dick that he doesn't know what to do with! Now, are you gonna tell me what you're doin', or am I gonaa have to hit you again?"

"Well," Ethan began, returning to his seat and continuing to write on the map. "If you must know…"

"I must," Gwen flirtatiously interrupted.

"It's something that Olivia's boyfriend asked me to make for the club."

"So an art project?" Gwen was blatantly making mocking passes at the young man to try to get his goat, but she soon caught herself doing more flirting than joking, and was pleasantly surprised when Ethan returned the favor.

"No, princess, not an art project. It's something important."

"Maybe you can tell me later. Right now I have a date with this hot piece of ass."

Gwen walked over to the bar where Olivia had been sitting and stood beside her, saying her goodbyes to Ethan and heading out of the clubhouse to Olivia's truck, a shiny new black Bobcat XL that was waiting just around the corner. As the two climbed into the vehicle and Olivia turned the ignition, the beast of a truck roared to life with a loud grumble, courtesy of the V10 engine it sported, and with a press of the gas pedal the two girls were on their way out of the club parking lot. Gwen hadn't even remembered to ask her newfound friend where exactly the duo was headed, so she thought now was as good a time as any to pose the question.

"So where are we headed to?"

"Somebody's gotta pick up the beer and liquor for the bar, so you're gonna ride along today and help me carry this shit. It ain't a glamorous job, but if those thick skulled buncha crazies didn't have their alcohol they'd actually be more irritable than when they're drunk."

"So how long have you and Johnny known each other?"

"Do mean how long have we been dating, or how long he's actually known me?"

"Both I guess."

Olivia adjusted herself in the truck's bucket seat and blew her brown bangs away from her eyes, rolling her tongue along her lips and straining to remember when she and Johnny first met.

"Johnny and I met back in '04, when he and some other guys from the Alderney Chapter rode out here on a run. I was dating some loser from the Blaine chapter at the time, and when I met Johnny for the first time we hit it off right away."

"So it was love at first sight, then?"

"Not necessarily. I was fallin' pretty hard for the guy, but I wasn't about to go behind Rico's back and sleep around. Not to mention Johnny was dating this crazy meth head named Ashley, and she was none too pleased that Johnny was talkin' to me. After he left for Liberty City we still kept in touch, but it wasn't until Rico started hittin' me that we really started talkin' again. One night Rico had knocked me around so bad I had to be escorted to the hospital by armed sheriff deputies, and while I was in the intensive care unit I called Johnny. When he found out he threw down the phone and drove for two days straight until he got to San Andreas, then he came and found me in the hospital. After he saw how banged up I was he went to find Rico, said that he just wanted to have a little talk. Nobody ever heard from or saw Rico again, and we all knew why, but no one blamed Johnny."

"He killed someone for you? Jesus Christ. I bet Ashley wasn't too pleased."

"She was out of the picture by this point, supposedly, but she'd rear her ugly toothless mug every now and then to try and sucker Johnny into helping her out. After I was better he headed back to Alderney and we kept in touch via LifeInvader and textin'. We didn't start dating until about a year ago, after his accident when he moved out here."

"If you don't mind my asking, what accident?"

Olivia seemed to be growing fidgety in her seat, looking out the window at the passing cars and trying to avoid eye contact with Gwen as much as possible. It was pretty easy to see that the topic was something difficult for her to remember, let alone talk about, so Gwen tried to change the subject before anything was said.

"So do you know who that guy was back there at the bar?"

"Who," Olivia questioned, relieved at the change of subject, "you mean Ethan?"

"Yeah. He seems like kind of a strange guy."

"Well from what I saw back there you two chatted like you were old friends."

Gwen smiled a little and looked out the window at the vibrantly painted houses and shops that dotted the landscape around the Vespucci Beach area, thinking back to earlier that morning, when Ethan was holding her at gunpoint in her underwear and digging through her possessions. She chuckled at the thought of it, and Olivia shot her a curious glance, unsure of what the girl was laughing about.

"Somethin' funny," she questioned.

"Just thinkin' about last night," Gwen answered with a grin.

"Somethin' happen you wanna tell me about? Somethin' between you two?"

"Unless you count him holding me hostage in my underwear as something, then no."

Olivia gave Gwen a concerned look, and the young girl began to explain what had happened with the confusion about who was living in the clubhouse, and how Ethan had taken it upon himself to play the concerned citizen and try to investigate the sound of shattering glass he had heard. The story took less than a few minutes to tell, but the two women were overcome with intense laughter by the time Gwen reached the part where Ethan began to apologize and tried to cop a feel while brushing her off. After a the two had shared a good chuckle at the poor boy's expense they had finally arrived at the liquor store, where Olivia pulled the truck around back and told Gwen to wait while she went in and processed the order.

…

Gwen had been sitting alone in the pickup for what felt like hours now, although it had actually only been about thirty minutes since Olivia left her. Nonetheless, the young girl was growing impatient with having to wait in the truck without any air conditioning while the sun beat down on the hot leather interior. Finally becoming fed up with her situation, Gwen decided it would be more bearable to have to sit through a lecture about not following orders than spend one more minute in her finely upholstered hell. Snatching up her purse and walking around to the front of the store she wondered what could possibly be taking so long to order beer and whiskey. She had seen a rather short line at the counter on their approach, so it seemed strange that it would take any more than fifteen minutes to fill out a rec-form for an order that they already knew was going to be picked up. Then, turning the corner and looking into the large plate-glass window, Gwen realized why it was taking Olivia so long with the order.

Quickly ducking back behind the wall of the store and peeking out just enough to see inside, she could make out that there were two black men clad in green facemasks pointing guns at the cashier. They barked orders at him loudly and without seeming to realize that the man, who was of some Asiatic descent, couldn't understand the slang that the man in charge was using.

"Put the bread in the sack," shouted one of the men. He was tall, slightly hunched over and wore pants that sagged down partially past his boxers. The other accomplice was somewhat stouter, having a wider build, but a much shorter frame.

"How many time I have tell you," blasted back the cashier, "we no sell bread!"

"The dough, you smart ass. Put the dough in the bag," screamed the shorter man

"This isn't bakery!"

"Baker… the mo… money jackass, put the money in the god damn bag!"

At the mention of the money it was clear that the cashier was now completely comprehensive of what the two men were asking of him, and if it meant that they would leave his store and his customers alone, then he was all too willing to oblige. As the man loaded up the bag they had handed him he dropped it to the ground, his old, shaky hands riddled with arthritic pain and coupled with a feeling of terrified urgency had kept him from getting a good grip. While bending over to pick it up the shorter man suddenly became enraged, sprinting behind the counter and dragging the old man out by the back of his neck and throwing him to the floor in view of all the other customers. Without mercy the gangster began to assault the man's torso and head, letting loose a volley of poorly placed kicks that landed with hard thuds against the man's brittle bones. As she heard the cries of the cashier ring out into the streets, and the cracking of bones under the heavy blow of the robber's sneaker, Gwen soon became sick, and with each vicious blow the urge to vomit crept into her stomach.

Looking back into the window she saw Olivia huddle under a shelf of wine, along with two other patrons who had gotten caught up in the commotion. Wondering what she may be able to do to help Gwen's mind went immediately to the pistol that she was carrying in her purse, and quickly rooting through the sack she pulled out the small sidearm and gave it a once over. Making sure a round was in the chamber, the young woman's heart began to race at the thought of running into the liquor store and staring down the barrel of a gun. She took several deep breaths, trying desperately to slow her heartrate, but to no avail. Before backing out of her decision entirely, Gwen slid up the wall and switched the safety off on her gun, thinking to herself:

 _You can do this. Just ask them to leave and point the gun at them. Yeah, that'll go over so fucking well. God dammit, I really don't wanna do this. I have to though. For Olivia, and that poor old man. I've been here two days and I already hate this fucking city._

With a burst of adrenaline and trying not to think about how ill-conceived her plan was, the half-hearted heroine yanked open the glass door and ran into the store, bringing her gun to full bear on the assailant who had been mercilessly beating the old cashier. Upon hearing the bell on the door ring the two men stopped what they were doing and looked up at Gwen through cheap ski masks, taken back by the sight of the woman who had just burst into the room with a gun drawn. Before anyone could say or do anything Gwen panicked, completely forgetting the routine she had rehearsed in her head, and instead giving into nerve impulse and a deep seeded fear that triggered a primal urge to survive. Without warning the small SNS pistol made four loud snaps, the resonation amplified by a confined space, and in an instant the stout man bumbled backwards, knocking against the counter and sliding to the floor below, dragging a trail of deep red blood down the divider.

On the other side of the register the taller, lanky man stood dumbfounded, watching as his accomplice slowly slid out of sight on the opposite end. He looked back towards Gwen, and with his mouth agape and lower lip quivering he managed to whimper out,

"Doughboy… motha' fucka' shot Doughboy…"

Shaking convulsively and shocked by what she had just down, Gwen was unsure of what to do next, and began looking around the room aimlessly. The hostages seemed to be just as caught off guard by the shooting as their savoir, and when Gwen finally saw Olivia screaming at her she couldn't make out a word she was saying.

The room seemed to be spinning, a sharp ringing penetrating her ears and driving deep into her skull, impacting Gwen's head with the force of a railroad spike being driven into the ground by a twenty pound sledgehammer. Suddenly a great weight came over her entire body, and she slumped to the ground as the spinning began to intensify, propping herself against the doorframe with a shoulder and sitting on her haunches. Olivia sprinted over to the sickly girl, prying the gun from her hands and firing the remainder of the magazine at the fleeing bandit, who had left the till completely untouched in his hasty escape through the backdoor. Putting the gun on the floor Olivia grabbed Gwen by the shoulders, trying to communicate, but not understanding that Gwen had slipped into a shell-shocked state after shooting the would be robber. Jamming the gun into her purse and grabbing her companion, Olivia began making her way to the truck, only walking about three yards before Gwen's queasy stomach finally gave out and left her vomiting up the previous afternoon's hotdog all over the parking lot of the liquor store.

After finally cramming Gwen into the Bobcat, Olivia jumped into the driver's seat and tore off down the road, attempting to get as far away from the scene as possible before the police showed up on the scene. With the spinning beginning to slow, and her bearings gradually returning, Gwen turned to her counterpart who had been driving with reckless abandon down every backroad and alley she knew in Los Santos. Popping out near the La Puerta Freeway Olivia began to slow the truck down to a safer speed, and eventually pulled into an alley that was littered with the abandoned dwellings of the LS homeless population.

"Gwen," she shouted, clasping the young woman's face and looking into her eyes. "Gwen, are you alright?"

Gwen still seemed bewildered, as though she had misplaced her mind, and everything around her was trying to be put back into perspective.

"Doughboy," Gwen asked with squinted eyes. "Are you doughboy?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Olivia moaned in a gruff tone. "She's delusional. This is gonna be real easy to explain. 'Oh hey, sweetheart. You won't believe what happened. We were getting the booze when these guys came in and held the joint up, but luckily my saving grace was here to keep the situation under control by SHOOTING SOME FAT PRICK IN THE LUNGS!'"

Olivia let out a sigh of deep remorse, realizing that by running she may have put the two of them in more danger than if they had just stayed until the police arrived. It was too late to think about "what ifs", though, and as she turned back to the passenger seat Gwen was looking at the brown haired woman with wide eyes and pouty lips.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," Gwen sobbed. "I thought I was helping."

"You did help." Olivia tried to comfort the poor girl, knowing full well that it's never easy having to watch someone die for the first time, and it's even harder when you're the one holding the smoking gun. Gwen nestled her head into the woman's soft bosom, taking comfort in the warmth of Olivia's body heat and allowing herself to slip away from her troubles. This only lasted a few short moments, however, as the once gallant daredevil soon found herself with her head hanging out of the Bobcat window as the remains of her stomach contents were spilled onto the pavement.

…

Just one thin floor below the sounds of hoots and hollers could be heard as clear as if they were being broadcast through a megaphone, the bikers celebrating their triumphant victory over the Lost members from Blaine county that had been harassing them for some six or eight odd months. Gwen, however, could've done without the boisterous racket, and every shout that blasted its way through the thin cedar boards was like a tiny explosion reverberating throughout the cramped confines of her room. Her head throbbed wildly, the migraines only mitigated by the burning sensation that her now dried and bloodshot eyes radiated with each blink, having expended their store of tears after only three hours of continuous crying. The scene from the liquor store played out repeatedly in Gwen's head, every graphic detail seemingly intensified with each reiteration of the gory debacle. At the time she only wanted to help one of the few friends she had made since arriving in LS, but now the downtrodden girl wanted only to go back and scold her past self for even contemplating running through that door, saving hours of unwanted misery and nightmares.

The past couldn't be changed, though, and now rather than party and celebrate with the group Gwen condemned herself to the tiny room upstairs, not wanting to be bothered by anyone but her own miserable thoughts. Olivia hadn't seen her take it, but Gwen had stolen the pistol back from out of the truck when Olivia wasn't looking, not wanting to let go of the weapon that she had carried out the slaying with. It now lye at the opposite side of the room, on a small end table, slide locked open and magazine removed, where Gwen could see it as she lay sprawled across the tiny sofa in the corner. She didn't know why she wanted the damned thing, or what drove her to snatch it back from Olivia, but something in the back of her mind whispered to her to grab it. At first she thought that holding it may somehow bring her to terms with what had transpired, but instead it now lay there, mocking her to no end, and taunting her to simply throw it out the window and forget it. She couldn't though. It wasn't right. Patches had given her that pistol because he thought that she may need it, and unfortunately the old man was correct in his assumption, though even if he saw what disdain the gun had brought, Gwen doubted very seriously that he wouldn't have still given it to her. He only wanted to keep her safe, and in a way he did. But at what cost?  
Gwen's heart jumped for a moment at the sound of the door opening beside her, but she was too despondent to move, instead remaining tucked away inside of her blanket where she could at least feel the false sense of comfort wrapped in the bulky cotton. As she looked towards the door she was surprised to find Ethan standing above her, looking down at the morose, corpselike wretch that only hours prior had been bubbling with joy and sex appeal. She sheepishly pulled the blanket above her nose and mumbled,

"Unless you're here to kill me, go away…"

Ethan didn't remark on the depressing comment, instead strolling across the room and waltzing up to the Shrewsbury SNS, grasping it with fingerless-glove clad hands, inspecting the piece and slowly looking at every part of it. Though it had only had a single magazine put through it the smell of burning sulfur and nitroglycerine was apparent, and he could see ever so minute flecks of burnt powder still clinging to the side of the ejector. Rolling the pistol over the observed the engravings on the slide.

 _Shrewsbury Armory, SNS Model M95, 900815_

Ethan laughed internally at the thought of a company actually naming one of their firearms a "Saturday Night Special" themselves rather than allowing the gun community to get a cheap laugh at their expense, but much to his surprise the GTA pistol had actually performed quite well for its intended use as a concealed carry weapon, and it was evident by Gwen's current state that it certainly wasn't living up to the moniker it had been named after. Turning back to the poor girl curled up across the room he noticed that she had rolled over, clearly not wanting to look at what had caused her so much grief. He laid the firearm back in its original position and walked back over to Gwen, who refused to look at him.

"Olivia said you refuse to come out," Ethan questioned, sitting on the couch by the girl's feet. Gwen was silent, stone cold and unwilling to talk. "Ya know you saved that old man's life. Olivia said that guy was gonna kill 'im, and you stopped him."

"If I'm such a hero," started Gwen, "then why do I feel like such a piece of shit?"

Ethan leaned back into the sofa, picking up Gwen's legs and draping them across his lap, where he then began to rub her exposed calves.

"It's not easy, the first one, but you start to get used to the killing."

"I heard about you shooting that guy," Gwen muttered, relaxing slightly at the soothing feel of Ethan massaging her legs. "Didn't it make you sick?"

"Of course it did. I said you get used to it, but that doesn't mean the guilt isn't still there."

"How many people have you killed?"

Ethan paused for a moment, loosening his hold on Gwen's leg and allowing himself to get caught in a maelstrom of memories that seemed to come rocketing back from a time in his life that he had left behind long ago. Gwen felt the pressure relax, and sat up to look at him, his chin now masked by a thick, scruffy five o'clock shadow that grew around a mouth drawn agape by the question that she had posed.

"I'm sorry," she said in a hushed manner, then wrapped her arms around the dismal man's torso, pulling herself into his leather jacket and nestling her head on his chest. The feel of her tightening grip snapped Ethan back to reality, and he pulled Gwen in closer with his right arm, laying her head down on his lap and pulling the thick cotton blanket back over her bare legs. The two sat in total silence for only but a moment before Ethan finally answered.

"Ten," he remarked finally, keeping his gaze on the pistol across the room. "Not including the one today. So eleven."

"Why so many?" Gwen pushed for more answers, but she knew that it was a very fine line that she was walking, and at any moment he could simply grow tired or her incessant questioning and leave.

"I was protecting people that I cared for."

"What'd they do for you to have to protect them?"

"We did bad things, and when our luck ran out and karma came calling it didn't just knock, it kicked the door off its fucking hinges."

Gwen pondered at what Ethan could have possibly meant by "bad things".

 _What bad things would make you have to kill people,_ she thought, _or make them wanna kill you?_

"What kind of bad things," Gwen prodded, digging a deeper hole.

"I used to ride with another club in a different life," Ethan said after a few moments. "We were young, too young to be doing that shit, and we thought that we'd never have to answer for what we did. We sold drugs, extorted people, and in the end we let our egos outrun our brains. I lost my best friend when I was twenty because of the stupid things we did, and to this day I still live with that guilt. By the time of my nineteenth birthday I had already killed seven men, and I can still remember all of their faces. The first guy I ever shot was some prospect from a rival MC who thought that he'd make patch by offing some of the local competition so they could move in. I was eighteen, just got outta school and rode over to the clubhouse. It was just some piece of shit shack in a junkyard that one of our friend's dad owned, but to us it was like a second home. My best friend Evan and I were drinkin' and shootin' darts when this guy walks in, wavin' a .40 in our faces and sayin' how he was gonna kill us and get himself a patch. Too bad for him I always carried a .45, first thing I strapped on every day after school. When he turned away for a second I pulled on 'im, unloaded all 12 rounds into his chest and head. I threw up all over the place, nearly shit my pants too. I couldn't even help dig the hole they buried the stupid fuck in I was shakin' so hard. Refused to touch that pistol for a month, until that guy's buddies came lookin' for a fight. I shot two more ten weeks later, but it was different. I didn't puke, but I still shook like a dog shittin' razorblades."

Gwen listened intently, focusing on every word that Ethan said and analyzing every bit of his story, shocked by some of what she was hearing. Ethan had seemed so nice, aside from their first encounter, he was so kind to her, and certainly not the stereotypical killer persona that she would have expected. She tucked herself away tighter in his groin, and wrapped her arms around his legs.

"I can't promise that you'll ever forget it," Ethan said, ", in fact I know you'll never forget. I can promise you, though, that you'll eventually stop feeling this way. So until you're better, just know that I'll always be here to talk."

Looking at the pistol on the end table, Gwen hoped that what he said was true, and that she would eventually be able to live with the decision that she had made. For now, however, Ethan was here for her, and that's all that she wanted.


	9. Dire Straits

**Chapter 9: Dire Straits**

Ethan swiftly trotted down the stairs of the clubhouse, swinging the corner and finding Cricket sitting at the bar, hunched over and already drunk before he had even reached midday, but Ethan just grinned and chuckled to himself, amazed that the redheaded party animal had even managed to crawl out of bed yet, let alone find his way to the bar. As he approached Cricket finally caught sight of the young man, flashing him a glance and welcoming head nod before letting out a loud sigh as Ethan cracked him a hearty slap across his back.

"Christ, boyo," Cricket retorted, head clearly reeling form a long night of drinking and debauchery. "Ya get a prospect patch an' suddenly ya think ya can jus' walk around assaultin' brothers like that? What's this feckin' club comin' to?'

"Somebody's gotta keep ya on yer toes," Ethan poked back. "God knows that if someone didn't you'd end up a knife buried in yer back ya damn oblivious drunk."

It had been nearly three months since Ethan had earned his prospect patch, a hard fought title to receive that was earned when he and other members of the Lost LS Chapter struck back against their Blaine County rivals, sending a rippling message that the LS Chapter would no longer be a whooping boy for whomever felt like it. He was proud, and finally felt like he was earning some respect around the clubhouse, which was good since he'd been making waves with the heads of the club not long after his arrival. Cricket, though, had been uncommonly kind to the new prospect, and while he took every chance he could to harass and humiliate Ethan, the fact of the matter was that if anyone else tried to give the newcomer _too_ much of a hard time, they would quickly be put in their place by the rampant Irishman. It was a feeling of relief for Ethan to have someone in his corner that was backing him, and seeing as how his previous three months had turned up no leads on finding Mark or Jack, he needed good connections now more than ever.

"Don' need no one keepin' me on ma toes," Cricket laughed back. "'Specially not some giddy shite what rides 'is bike like a lame mare."

The two laughed and sat there for a moment, watching the tiny television that sat atop the beer cooler behind the bar, news reels of a robbery that had occurred at the Union Depository nearly six months prior. Something about the heist sounded familiar, but after spending five months playing a game that he had now been trapped in for nearly as long, he felt as though he was making connections that weren't really there, and slipping up wasn't an option, not with his friends lives potentially on the line. Any leads to Mark and Jack's whereabouts had dried up shortly after they had arrived in LS, and while Ethan wanted to look for them he had no idea where to even begin. Top priority was simple: survive long enough to get into a good place, then start looking for anyone else that may have slipped through from the real world.

Ethan looked at his leather clad hands, digits protruding out fingerless gloves, busted and scarred from his time running with the Lost, calluses beginning to set in from the drunken fights and maintenance on hot engine components, arms covered in remnants of grease that streaked over bruises and fresh cuts. It didn't matter if the Los Santos that he had been living in was real or not, he was able to feel pain, sorrow, happiness, inebriation and even love, which meant it was real enough; to live _and_ die. There wasn't a day that went by where Mark, Jack and Conner didn't cross his mind, and the guilt of going about a semi-normal life while his friends could be suffering or dying didn't bode well with his conscious. It was a new day, though, and with no obligations to any other members for the first time in months, it was finally the Cowboy's chance to go out and find his forsaken herd.

As Ethan stood up to walk away Cricket grabbed his arm, looking straight ahead at the television, but saying nothing, as though he couldn't remember what he was going to say, or perhaps he just didn't know how to say it. Then he finally spoke,

"Someone came lookin' fer ya. Preppy queer hawk what looked like some kinda Rockford Hills tool. You… know a feller like that?"

Ethan had to think for a minute, trying to recall everyone that he'd met in Los Santos since his arrival, but no one crossed his mind, as most of his new acquaintances either hung around the clubhouse or were shot dead the morning following his arrival.

"No one I can think of," returned Ethan, puzzled and left wanting for answers. "What did he say?"

"Like I said, he jus' said he was wonderin' where ya might be. Told 'im ya were probably out cruisin' fer pussy, but if I knew ya were jus' sleepin' I'd of woke yer git arse up."

"Did he say where I might be able to find him?"

"Aye"

Ethan stood there for a moment, waiting for Cricket to answer, knowing full well that he wasn't going to oblige the boy without having some questions of his own answered first, and given that the whole time they'd been talking he hadn't looked at Ethan once yet was a dead giveaway that whoever it was that Cricket talked to genuinely made him concerned for the young prospects life.

"Can you tell me where," inquired Ethan with a sharp tone, to which Cricket quickly spun around, standing up and coming to bear in front of a now terrified initiate who had never seen such anger in his friends eyes.

"I don' know who th' feck these fellers are, Cowboy," whispered Cricket, his foul breath dragging crossed the air between the two, and bloodshot eyes piercing through Ethan's very moral fiber. "but I'm gonna tell ya this. When a feller wearin' clothes that cost twice as much as me bike walks into a Lost clubhouse like it was a leisurely stroll down the Del Perro feckin' boardwalk, well that sends a bit of a shiver up my feckin' arse hole. Watch yer back 'round twats with big checkbooks and small consciences, boyo, 'cause they're the ones who'll stick a shiv in yer guts and hang 'round to watch the buzzards pick yer eyes out."

Ethan locked eyes with the man for what seemed like several long, uninterrupted minutes, staring back at one another with a kind of unwavering intensity that two wolves about to fight over the same kill get when they haven't eaten for three days. The awkwardness of the situation was cut short, though, once the two heard the sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way down the stairs. Cricket quickly swiped a piece of paper from his pants and stuffed it into Ethan's breast pocket, pulling him in closer so as to be able to whisper into his ear without whomever was coming down the steps hearing what he was about to say.

"This is all he gave me," Cricket said swiftly, "I ain't looked at it, and I don' know what it says, but if ya get where yer goin' and realize ya need help, I'm only a buzz away, Cowboy."

As the two broke their embrace they saw their mystery companion reach the bottom of the stairs, and much to their surprise it wasn't a brother, but rather the clubhouses newest resident and mama in training, Gwen. The young girl was wearing tight, holey jeans with a red tank top and mid-cut boots, a more appealing sight than either of the two men had seen in more than a few days. She was shocked to see two roughnecks standing by the bar, but when she realized that one of them was Ethan the girl soon cracked a smile big enough to signal a low flying zeppelin. In the time since the two had first met they had formed quite a close relationship, and while neither of them would say whether they were together or not, they had been spending most of their free time together. Whenever Ethan wasn't running errands for patched members that is.

"Cricket, Ethan." She greeted the two men with a head nod and strolled over behind the bar, bending over and doing a quick count to see how many beers the two had gone through since she had been away. "Wow, Cricket, only five beers so far. Hell, if you're not careful you may just make it to six o'clock sober."

"Rough chance of that," he laughed back.

"So, what're you boys getting into today?"

"Well," said Ethan, "I was just leaving, so maybe you and Cricket can get into somethin' fun? I hear his a big hit with the ladies."

"Leaving, huh?" Gwen questioned, coming from behind the bar and approaching Ethan with a seductive side-to-side hip walk. She ran her hand down his jacket front, partially unzipping it and bringing her hand to rest on her hip. "Where we going?"

"You really don't wanna go with me, I've gotta get some…"

"Nonsense," the redhead interjected, grabbing her purse from behind the bar and striding towards the door. "I've got the day off. Let's do something fun."

"I've gotta meet a friend." Ethan was growing anxious, not wanting her to find out about him going to meet this mystery man, but at the same time not wanting to push away the closest thing to a normal relationship he's had since before he arrived.

"I can wait with the bike. I'm a big girl."

Gwen chuckled and strolled out the door, looking back and winking at Ethan in a "come hither" fashion, but the boy was less than amused, as he was now going to have to juggle this circus act that was slowly becoming his life.

"Ah, the fairer sex," Cricket sighed, spinning around on the bar stool he had returned to. "So… intoxicatin' with their whimsical demeanors."

"Yeah," retorted Ethan. "Like a Jaeger bomb in a glass of Everclear. Real whimsical."

After his smart remark he soon began working his way towards the door, his mind a flurry of what ifs and imaginary situations that he was playing over and over in his head, wondering what he would say to Gwen if she found out the truth. More importantly, what would he say to this mysterious stranger he was about to meet, a man who evidently had more information about Ethan than he felt comfortable with, and who knew exactly where to find him. It was actually safe to assume that he knew Ethan would be in the clubhouse when he came looking, and the only reason that they hadn't met in person was because of Cricket's seemingly opportune way of not remembering things at precisely the wrong moment.

…

As his candy apple bagger tore down the Palomino Freeway Ethan continued to go over what the note had said again in his mind, growing more tense the closer he and Gwen got to their destination, wondering just who was waiting for them, and whether or not they'd be friendly. The thought of it being Ray and a squad of his cronies had been a shallow concern, but with the description that Cricket had given of the guy it seemed pretty farfetched to believe that anyone from the Ballas could pull off a rich, middle aged killer look.

 _Bishop's Chicken. Palomino Freeway. 4 P.M._ Ethan was fixated on the letter. _What if it's Jack or Mark? What if they managed to find me after all this time? God, what would I even say to them? 'Sorry for leaving you for dead these last three months to join a fictional biker gang. No hard feelings, right?' I'm sure they'd understand. It's kill or be killed. I just hope they would have the guts to be the ones doing the killing._

Gwen could feel Ethan tensing up, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling herself up to his ear and leaning her head over his shoulder so as to nestle into his neck and attempt to comfort him. Her hair smelled of lavender and vanilla, a perfume that she had picked up from Olivia, who seemed more than happy to try to push the two newcomers together like some kind of poorly written romance novel that may as well have just been a novelization of the cheesiest porno ever produced. Regardless, it was somewhat soothing for Ethan, not just the smell, but having Gwen riding with him, as she seemed to be the only constant in his life since he arrived in Los Santos, aside from the insanity and extreme violence that the city seems to ooze out of every gutter and sewage pipe. She was his auburn haired, denim clad saving grace, and he felt that even if he was stuck in this version of reality forever, so long as he had her everything would be just fine.

The warm feeling wouldn't last forever, though, as the truck stop containing the meeting location was only a few miles ahead, and the clock on the fairing was reading about fifteen minutes from their meeting time, meaning that by the time they arrived his associate would be waiting. As he slowed the bike and climbed the off ramp he could see the restaurant sitting opposite the gas station pumps, only four cars sitting in the parking lot and a homeless beggar sitting by the dumpsters, slumped over and presumably either tweaking or OD'd, though no one cared to check. Whipping into the parking lot a good ways from the entrance Ethan quickly dismounted the bike, scanning the outside of the building from behind his riding glasses, looking for any signs of potential danger or indications that it may be a trap. As Gwen scooted forward he turned to her and looked to see if she was poking about, but rather she seemed to be content just sitting on the bike and adjusting her lipstick.

"You need to stay out here," Ethan told her, hanging his glasses from the handle bars. "Don't leave the bike, and stay where I can see you."

"I got it, I got it," she retorted with a smile. "God, you act like you're about to kill a guy. I thought you were just meeting a friend?"

"I am, just… stay by the bike, okay?"

"Don't worry, I'll keep my pretty little ass planted right here until you come back for it."

With one last glance back Ethan began to make his way towards the doors, rubbing his hands together and feeling the loaded pistol tucked away under his left armpit, a security policy just in case things decided to get hairy. Throwing the glass door aside as he walked in nothing seemed out of the ordinary, a few people at a table to his left, and a gangly teenager handing greasy food to a disgruntled customer who had probably been waiting far longer than he should have for food his arteries didn't need. That's when he heard a raspy voice calling him from across the room, low and scratchy, yet brash and demanding, coming from a man trying his best to conceal himself behind an outdated newspaper.

"Psst," he hissed out. "Over here, I'm over here."

Ethan quickly traversed the room, darting to the corner booth and quickly taking a seat across from the man.

"Were you followed," the voice asked.

"N… No," replied Ethan with a hesitant tone. He had never even thought to keep an eye out for a tail, but then again why would he have, up until this point he thought he was just coming for a simple meeting with a complete stranger.

"I hope not, for both our sakes."

As the man put the paper down Ethan's jaw nearly dropped to the floor when he saw who the individual was that had been hiding behind the newspaper, a man whom he never thought he would see again, yet who seems to have an all knowing way of locating whoever, and whatever, he wants.

"We don't have much time, but I'm the guy who saved your butt the day you fell from that arrived in Los Santos. You can just call me 'L'."

"Jesus Christ, Lester," moaned a man behind Ethan. "What the hell's up with all this secret agent bullshit? You know everything about this kid since he shows up, but you can't even tell him your name?"

"Dammit, Michael!" Lester shouted just as Michael Townley appeared with a fast food bag, soaked in grease and nearly as white as Ethan's face upon seeing who just pulled up a chair across from him. "Are you happy, now? He knows our names, what next our addresses, social security numbers, maybe my LifeInvader password?"

"Hey, listen," interjected Ethan, frantically trying to fight his primal fanboy instincts. "I'm not gonna tell anyone your names."

"You better," Lester scolded. "I don't want to have to make you disappear."

Michael took a bite of his sandwich, sending ketchup running down his hands as he leaned towards Lester with a mocking expression. "You? The cripple? I'd pay t' see that shit."

"Enough, I think it's about time we spoke about why we decided to meet our newest, dearest associate."

"Whatever you say, Lest."

"I'm sure you're wondering why we've called you here." Reaching into a portfolio Lester retrieved a small tablet no larger than a small book, logging in and pecking away frantically as he pulled up numerous folders all labeled with the names of different government organizations.

"Wait, were you two the ones who saved me back at the river?" Ethan was anxious to know the answer. On one hand his in game heroes potentially saved his life in one of the single most insane firefights he'd ever seen, while on the other if it wasn't them it meant that there was someone else out looking for the boy, possibly stalking them as the three sat talking.

"You _two,"_ cried Michael, almost taken aback by the statement. "Yeah, Lester was a big help, sitting in the car, crying while he scribbled a note and pissed himself."

"I wasn't crying, I told you the gunpowder was building up in my eyes!" Even as the two bickered Lester never took his eyes off the tablet, jotting down little notes and filing away what seemed like important details. "To answer your question though, yes, it was us."

"How'd you know where to find me," prodded Ethan, curious as to how they managed to pinpoint his exact location.

"For that I'll have to start from the beginning. You see, two days before your arrival government satellite arrays began picking up unique distortions of sound waves emanating from just above the stratosphere. When cross checked with ultraviolet scanner and high frequency sonar, it showed that not only were these foreign sounds being transmitted from our atmosphere, but light and matter were being bent around several centralized locations throughout San Andreas and Blaine County."

"This… this all sounds a little science fictiony."

"Don't worry, it gets nerdier. Fast forward two days and the distortions are now occurring roughly every fifteen minutes, and unlike before they're ripping holes right through empty space, creating small transdimensional rifts, according to some geeky multi-dimensional unified field theorists. Turbo nerds, am I right? Anyway, they started generating these bursts of energy that could only be picked via a type four passive sonar, so most just overlooked it as sudden energy dumps due to a buildup of unstable mass, but I knew better. I bolstered the sensors from a high powered space telescope I borrowed from the government, rerouting a multispectral transmitter through the lenses, and wouldn't you know what I found?"

"What?"

"You. Well, you and about a two hundred thirty seven others who were just being dumped out of these rifts. We tracked you based on a unique heat signature given off when you broke through space time continuum. Luckily, we managed to find you before your heat signature wore off, and right before your normal heat signature was… shut off by your new acquaintances."

"So then you know…"

"About the other world? Yes, so don't worry, I won't ask you a hundred questions. No, I just wanted to get a read on your vitals and thermal output, which I already did while we sat here talking. Now, I'm sure you have some questions for _us_ , so go ahead."

Ethan's head was a hurricane, wondering what he should and shouldn't ask, what may seem stupid, and how much did they know of his world, perhaps even how to get back through whatever wormhole it was he fell out of. For a moment he looked out the window and saw Gwen patiently waiting on his bike, staring into the sky without a care in the world, completely oblivious to the conversation unfolding in the restaurant. Seeing her sitting there made him question whether or not he actually wanted to go back, for the first time in years he was happy, and the thought of all that being taken away hurt him like he'd never felt. It didn't matter, though, the question still had to be asked, and the potential for Lester to know where Mark and Jack were was too good of an opportunity to pass up on.

"Is there a way back?"

Lester sat for a moment with a genuinely anguished look on his pock mark stricken face, turning to Michael for some kind of assurance before finally looking back to Ethan and answering his question.

"No. We're not _really_ sure what caused these rifts, and even if we did they've all but disappeared now. Anyone coming through is already here, and anyone that was leaving is long gone."

"I see…"

"There is another reason you're here though, kid." Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and staring straight into Ethan's eyes. "You're friend, Mark, went missing about three days ago, and we have no clue where he's at."

"Mark is… he's alive?" Ethan was overjoyed, thrilled to hear that at least Mark had made it alive through the portal, and while he wasn't sure of his condition, just knowing he was still kicking was more than enough.

"That's where it gets a little iffy. Ya see, he was alive three days ago, but we have no idea if he is now, _or_ where to even start looking for him."

"How'd you manage to find him?"

"Like I said before," responded Lester. "We could track the heat signature for a while after arrival, he was the first, and he offered swathes of information that helped me to gather what intel I have already have, or _had_ I should say. Problem is that when he went missing so did all of my information, so now _I'm_ back to square one and _he's_ been kidnapped."

"Are you sure he didn't just leave with the information?"

"Not likely seeing as how it was all kept in an encrypted file that only I can access. Normally, if any average hacker attempted to break into the file it would trigger a memory wipe and be gone in seconds, but that didn't happen. Instead whoever hacked the file managed to disrupt the dump, taking everything on my computers, and Mark, in one foul swoop."

Ethan leaned back in his chair and slouched over, wondering what could have happened to his friend, and whether or not he was alive, or perhaps being dissected in some government facility along with anyone else who managed to slip in through the rifts.

 _I have to find him,_ Ethan thought to himself. _Whatever it takes I've got to find Mark, then we can focus on getting Jack and getting the hell out of here. Where would I even start though? Lester's the best hacker in Los Santos and even he has no idea who would've had the capabilities to break in and take Mark. This is so fucked._

"I'm willing to help with whatever you need, but I have to ask you something. Why come to me now? It's been three months since you've made any sort of contact with me, and now suddenly you come looking for my help. Maybe I would've like to have known my friend was alive?"

"Mark didn't mention you or Jack until recently," Lester explained, stealing fries from Michael's bag all the while. "Even when he did he made it explicitly clear that he didn't want you two to know what was going on until after we figured out a way to return you to your dimension."

"So you _do_ know where Jack is?"

"Unfortunately not. I had feelers sent all across Los Santos and Blaine County, but nothing ever came back with any substantive information. The closest we got was some pot farm that got toasted after somebody broke in and smoke about six thousand dollars in dope."

"That sounds about right…"

Suddenly the doors to Bishop's Chicken flew open, slamming against the floor stops and cracking the glass in several spots, sending a majority of the patrons spinning to see what had blown into the restaurant. Sprinting through the doorway was Gwen, heading straight for Ethan, Michael and Lester, looking over her shoulder and frantically scrambling past cheap, pressed steel chairs and particle board tables.

"Friend of yours?" Michael was looking at Ethan as the trio watched Gwen running through the dining area as though some terrifying creature was after her.

"Ethan," she panted, trying to catch her breath. "There's… there's these black cars outside. Guys in suits. They're… they just killed a guy."

Ethan immediately shot up from his chair, as did Michael, both drawing their pistols and heading straight for the windows to see who was causing trouble outside, though upon laying eyes on their uninvited guests it quickly became apparent that they were not only outmanned, but outgunned. Eight men accompanied by two armor plated SUVs guarded the Bishop's Chicken parking lot, each man carrying a Coil Combat PDW, heavy body armor and enough ammunition to wage war against a small sovereignty. They had clearly come looking for someone, and it was too much of a coincidence for it not to be the trio that had come to talk about the appearance of interdimensional visitors being a reality. As Ethan and Michael chambered their pistols the crowd in that had been amassing by the windows inside Bishops were well aware that a firefight was about to breakout between the two armed men inside, and the small army that had gathered outside.

Without warning a high pitched shriek tore past Ethan like a bolt of pink lightening, knocking down whoever got in its way, and sending one man flying towards the glass window against which he had been leaning. The shriek was a middle aged woman in a pink track suit who clearly could not handle what she was watching unfold, and as she flung the doors wide open and ran into the parking lot all that awaited her was a hail of gunfire unleashed by the men in suits. The rounds ripped through her like a band saw through plywood, riddling her slightly overweight body with enough lead to drop a bull elephant, and sending blood and brain matter splattering against the window. The remaining patrons began to panic at the sight of the woman in pink being gunned down just yards away, several of them running through the doors and meeting the same fate at the end of a smoking gun. Those left in the building ran for cover wherever they could, as bullets were already passing through the glass and striking the adjacent walls, splintering concrete and metal fragments throughout the dining area and kitchen.

"Out the back," Michael shouted, pointing towards the delivery door on the far side of the kitchen. Lester didn't need to be told a second time, making his way to the back as quick as he could, Gwen trying to help him along. Michael and Ethan slid over the counter and made a straight shot for the backdoor, sprinting past employees who were hunkered down against the prep tables, terrified and shaking, wondering what was going to happen next. Their faces were young, some no older than twenty, just college kids looking to make a quick buck while they blew through their parents bank accounts trying to earn some worthless business or sports medicine degree. Ethan was taken back to life that he had left not that long ago, trapped in a career field that he didn't want to be a part of in a city that he hated, but this was his life now, running from gunfire in a once fictional city, fighting beside characters he once controlled. The powers that be had certainly handed him quite a strange hand of cards, but regardless it was his hand to play, for better or worse this was his life, and he either had to roll with the punches or get rolled over.

As Michael and Ethan approached the door they threw themselves on either side, taking up a position so as to breach through if there was anyone on the other side waiting for them. They steeled themselves for an exit, and as Michael nodded to Ethan the young biker flung the door open and brought his pistol to bear. Stepping out into the light and through the door four more men were waiting for them, all with their PDWs pointed at the door, waiting and prepared to fire. Quickly grabbing Ethan by his jacket, Michael jerked the boy back through the entry way, sending him to the floor and slamming the door closed just as another volley of fire pelleted against the heavy steel, unable to penetrate, but still leaving massive welts in the metal. They were trapped on all sides, and with nowhere to turn it seemed as though this would become their Alamo, only no one would remember their names or even why these men came for them.

"Well, shit," Michael laughed. "What the fuck now? How long before these assholes storm the place?"

Everyone knew that there was no way out, even Lester, who normally kept a pretty level head, was beside himself trying to think of a way out, but as he scrolled through the outside security cameras on his tablet it was despairingly obvious that they were surrounded on all sides. The remaining guests had gathered behind the front counter, out of the line of sight of the men outside, but not out of harm's way, as the small force was gearing up for their push into the restaurant.

"Who the fuck are these guys Lester? FIB? IAA?"

"No," he replied. "They're too well armed and not well enough organized to be a government agency. The body armor and expensive coms setup tells me that they're private sector, probably hired by someone with too much money and not enough to do."

"So what the fuck now?"

"I'm trying to figure that out Michael, just give me a minute!"

As Lester typed away Ethan tried to think of a way to help the situation, but given their surroundings he was hard pressed to find anything that would be of use, and as he looked around at the distressed diners he realized that even if Gwen, Michael, Lester and he made it out, all those who were left behind would surely feel the wrath of the men who had lost their bounty.

Outside the SUVs revved their engines as they pulled up to create an impromptu barricade parallel the front door, and the armed men began stacking up against the glass, prepared to storm the building and take their target by force. Michael and Ethan braced against the service counter, prepared to take as many with them as they could before being overwhelmed, which wouldn't be very many given their situation.

"Get ready kid," said Michael, pressing his shoulder into the counter and placing his only spare magazine on the floor next to him. "We'll probably die, but that doesn't mean we don't have to make these pricks work for it."

Ethan was ready, though there was still a nauseas feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he hoped would stop the more he had to do this, if lived long enough to do it _again_ , that is. He looked back at Gwen, who was trying to comfort some of the people trapped inside, many of whom were on their phones, realizing that this would probably be the last time they got to talk to their families. As Gwen bent over to grab something from off the ground Ethan saw that her SNS pistol was strapped to her inner thigh, a shock as she hadn't worn in since the incident at the liquor store with Olivia. It didn't mean much in the way of comfort for their situation, but at least she wasn't defenseless, and the fact she was carrying it meant that she finally came to terms with what it may mean to have to use it.

Outside, storm clouds began to gather in the sky, swirling into what seemed like a mad vortex as water droplets began to fall onto the front window, smearing and mixing with the gore that was spread across glass. Whatever happened next, Ethan decided he was ready for.

 _I can't crack under the pressure now,_ he thought. _Not when Gwen and Michael are depending on me. Whoever comes through that door is gonna pay for every inch. ._


	10. Sense & Sensibility

**Chapter 10: Sense & Sensibility**

As Ethan and Michael braced themselves for what would surely be there last gunfight, Ethan took a moment to think back to a time before he became ensnared in such a chaotic and improbable lifestyle, wondering what during his life predetermined this to be his fate, or if everything was simply self-driven, a random amalgamation of individual choices that led to this point. He had never been big on religion or church, though his mother often talked about the bible and God to such an extent that one may have mistaken them for devout Christians. When Terry had been praying before they went after the Blaine County Chapter guys that day, Ethan wondered if it was that prayer that had allowed him to be quicker on the trigger than the man he shot to save Johnny's life, or if he was just in the right place at the right time.

 _I suppose thoughts of faith and predetermination weigh heavily on the soul before death,_ he pondered to himself.

Without warning the gunmen outside booted the door open, shattering the glass and charging in before anyone even knew what happened, but Michael was prepared, having had his pistol already trained on the door. As soon as the first man was through the door he unleashed a volley of 9mm rounds through the air, catching one of the gunman in the throat and dropping him to the ground. Ethan watched for a moment as the body toppled to the ground, the man gripping at his throat and hemorrhaging blood all over the white and blue tiles of the restaurant. From behind, screams of those caught in the crossfire screeched through the air, snapping Ethan to full attention as he fired three shots blindly towards the door, forgetting to aim and hoping that at least one of his rounds would strike somewhere. Alas, they were wasted shits, and as more armed men poured into the building the gunfire only grew more intense, the PDWs filling the air with what seemed like almost a blanket of steel core ammo, slamming into whatever they could before ricocheting back off. The sound of some of the 9mm rounds firing from the gunmen were impacting behind Michael and Ethan as soft thuds, and while Ethan knew all too well what that meant he couldn't bring himself to turn around and see who had been hit, rather he simply hoped that it wasn't Gwen, or if it was that she didn't suffer.

Seconds ticked away like hours as the gunfight drug into the fifteen minute mark, but Ethan knew it would soon be over, as he and Michael were both running dangerously low on ammo, and without resupply they were done for. As Ethan loaded his final mag a man wielding a pump shotgun came from above the counter, pointing the gun straight at Ethan's face as he began to pull back on the trigger. Thinking quickly he grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pointed it straight downward, causing the man's finger to slip and discharge the weapon, in turn sending ceramic and caulking flying into Ethan's face and torso. The shrapnel burnt his flesh as he recoiled from the pain, toppling backwards and grasping at his now ringing ears that were covered in blood. Michael quickly grabbed the gun before the man could chamber another round, pulling him downwards and pinning him against the floor. As Michael and the gunmen struggled for control of the shotgun Ethan could only watch on as the two slugged it out on the floor, unable to see straight and dazed by the concussion from the blast. Scrambling frantically to find his pistol, as he had dropped it when he tumbled back, another gunman came around the corner of the service counter brandishing a PDW and pointing it straight at Michael. Ethan's hand slid across the floor until finally he felt the pistol lying just beside him.

"Hey," he screamed at the top of his lungs, catching the man off guard just long enough to allow Ethan to bring up his pistol and fired two shots directly at the man, the first striking his vest, and the second lodging itself in his right eye.

As the man's corpse hit the ground Michael quickly slugged his assailant across the face with his empty pistol, jerking the shotgun out of the man's hands, cycling a new round, and redirecting the barrel towards his assailant's chest. With a thunderous boom bone fragments and sinew flew from the man chest, completely shredding his body armor at such a close range, and sending blood and organ tissue flying across Michael's face. He threw himself back against the counter and grabbed Ethan, pulling him back up and into safety for the time being.

"Nice shootin', kid" Michael noted with an almost proud tone in his voice, as though he were happy to be fighting next to Ethan. "You're a regular Wyatt Earp, ya know that?"

"I've only got six shots left," Ethan returned, more concerned with the situation at hand than with how his shooting was. Michael quickly popped over the counter for a moment and sent a shot down range, striking another attacker in the leg and sending him to the floor writhing in pain.

"Then make 'em count!"

Ethan jumped from cover for only a moment and took aim at one of the men trying to get around behind them, firing a shot straight into the man's side, missing the vest and tearing through his lungs before bursting out the other side. As he returned to cover the sounds his target slowly suffocating as his lungs struggled to retain oxygen pressed heavy on Ethan's psyche, but he didn't concern himself with it. All he cared about was trying to get Gwen out of the restaurant alive at this point, and if that meant someone didn't get to go home to their family then that's what he was willing to do.

"Behind us," Gwen shouted. Michael and Ethan both turned and drew a bead on the steel loading door that was swinging open at the back of the kitchen, ready to drop the gunmen who had been stationed at the back of the building. To Ethan's surprise, however, it wasn't the gunmen that burst through the door, but instead two bikers armed with AKMs. As they cleared the blinding light coming through the door it was revealed to be Terry and Cricket, charging into the fray like the cavalry come to save them. Steel casings bounced all around as they laid down a hail of fire, the 7.62 rounds slamming into the attackers with enough force to blow many of them off their feet.

"Get the hell out of 'ere," shouted Cricket, signaling to the door. "C'mon, get up!"

Many of the civilians began making their way towards the door, though there was only three or four left, so they were out the door and gone quickly, with Lester and Gwen close behind. Michael stood up and fired his last two shells before ditching the shotgun and helping Ethan off the floor and out through the back, all the while Terry and Cricket stood brazenly in the doorway, laying down covering fire until they were all through.

Ethan scanned the parking lot beside Bishop's, locating his bike next to Terry's and making a mad dash, grabbing Gwen along the way and quickly mounting up. Cricket sprinted up and grabbed his bike, with Terry bringing up the rear after barricading the door with a dumpster. Firing up their bikes they quickly jumped on the throttle and tore off down the highway back towards the clubhouse, but Ethan soon realized that not only did he never get to finish his conversation with Michael and Lester, he didn't even know if they were alive. Terry and Cricket had pulled everyone out so fast that he wasn't even paying attention to see if they had gotten to a vehicle. For now he had to hope that they did, because as the three bikes rumbled down the highway Ethan knew that when they got back to the clubhouse there would be a whole slew of problems that were going to be addressed.

…

"What the fuck do you mean you don't know!?" Terry was furious, and since their return to the club had only grown more so, even as Cricket implored him to cut Ethan some slack and allow him to explain himself.

"I told you," shouted back Ethan. "I don't know what they wanted with us!?"

"Bullshit! Do you have any idea who those guys were? Well, do you?"

"If I knew the answer to that then I might be able to answer your first question, wouldn't I!?"

"Watch your fuckin' tone with me, prospect."

"Jesus, fuck," cried Cricket, dragging his palm down his face with a look of disgust. "Would you two gits stop carryin' on like a couple mouldy hoors, and for one feckin' minute just shut yer gobs and act like civilized feckin' adults!?"

Terry and Ethan stood silent, the only sound in the room being Gwen as she plucked ceramic fragments from Ethan's arms and face with a pair of tweezers. Cricket let out a sigh of relief and sat down in a chair across the room from Ethan's bed, while Terry continued to pace the room, holding back his urge to continue of his tirade.

"There, was that so 'ard? Listen, Cowboy, dem men were Martin Madrazo's personal security force."

"Meaning that he doesn't send them out for no good fucking reason," Terry interrupted.

"Which," Cricket hastily cut in, shooting Terry a look of discontent, "is why Terry 'ere is so caught up on tryin' t' find out why they were gunnin' fer ya."

"Like I said," replied Ethan, adamant to not tell Cricket or Terry anything about where he came from or why Madrazo's men were after him. "I don't know why they were after me, I just went to meet with a couple guys, and the next thing I know they started shooting people. Before I could get out of the joint they had us surrounded."

"Who were them fellers anyhow? The wanker with the shotgun, he was the one who came 'ere lookin' fer ya before, and th' way he 'andled himself told me he weren't a prick what to be fecked wit'."

"You followed us, did you not care enough to even eves drop on the conversation too?"

Ethan knew that he shouldn't be so rough on Cricket, even though he and Terry had tailed him to the meeting it was because of that Ethan was even still breathing, but he knew that he couldn't tell them the truth. If he didn't say something, though, they would either keep pressing him for information or lose trust in him completely, and without holding a members patch if he lost the trust of any brothers it could be a one way ticket to losing his prospect status. After thinking it over for a moment he decided that it would be best to tell them about Mark, and that they had information regarding him that Ethan had been hard pressed to find up until this point.

"A friend of mine went missing a few months back," he started. "We got separated when we first got to LS, and up until today I had no idea whether or not he was even still alive. The guy who came looking for me had information about him, but when I showed up they told me that he'd been kidnapped, and that they weren't sure who had done it. I don't know why they'd take him, or why they'd come after me, but if those guys worked for Martin Madrazo I think it's safe to say they're the ones who took my friend."

"Fuck," muttered Cricket, sliding into his chair.

Terry seemed to relax his body slightly, perhaps out of pity for Ethan, but either way some of the tension had fled the room, and it was obvious by their expressions that the two bikers had been put at ease, even if slightly, by Ethan telling them what he did. For a moment the trio sat silent, unsure of what to say, and contemplating what their next move would be, then Terry walked to the doorway and started to speak.

"It doesn't matter why, but if Madrazo's coming after you then it means he's started a war with the Lost. Not one we can really afford to be fighting right now with our attention on Blaine County, but regardless we protect our own. I gotta go meet with Johnny, he'll wanna know what's goin' down. In the meantime just try to rest up, and don't go getting' into anymore gunfights, yer face is already fucked up enough without the cuts and bullet holes."

With that Terry and Cricket left the room, leaving Gwen and Ethan to themselves, which was probably for the best considering that Gwen hadn't even managed to pry half of the fragments from Ethan's face. As she plucked away the prospect allowed his mind to wander, curious as to where his friend was, if Mark was alive or being experimented on by Madrazo's cronies in some backwater shack off the grid. He wondered what Johnny would have to say about the firefight at Bishop's Chicken, and whether or not they would terminate Ethan as a prospect for being too much of a danger to the club's survival.

 _What about Gwen,_ he thought. _If I leave then who's gonna watch her? Would she just be safer if I left?_

For an hour the two sat in total silence, Ethan in a stupor brought about by his own insecurity and a need for answers that he just didn't have at the moment, but for Gwen the silence was because she simply didn't know what to say to put the young man's mind at ease. As she pulled the last of the shards from his cheek and wiped away the blood with an alcohol pad she wondered about her feelings for Ethan, and whether or not he had the same for her, if he would be willing to put aside everything for her the way she would for him. After hearing what he said to Cricket and Terry, though, she knew that their situations weren't the same, she had nothing, no memory, no prior life, and she could afford to drop it all at a moment's notice because there was nothing to drop. Ethan on the other hand, he had obligations to the club, to himself, to Cricket and Terry, and more importantly to his lost friend, someone who he clearly held in high regards if he was willing to die to get information about him. Gwen wanted something more though, more than the violence and bloodshed, more than just getting by day to day, she wanted a life, a place to call home that wasn't in a biker bar, and she wanted it with Ethan. She decided if it wasn't the time now, then it would never be, so as she leaned against him and wrapped him in her arms, Gwen slowly began to say,

"Let's… let's run away together."

Ethan was taken back, blindsided by a question that he didn't know how to answer, and he knew that if he sat there for too long without saying anything then he risked losing everything.

"I want more than this," she continued. "I don't want to worry every time you leave if you're coming back or not. We could leave tonight, just grab our clothes and go somewhere, anywhere."

"It doesn't work like that." Ethan stood up and walked to the window, looking out into the streets below and watching as the rain drops collected in the puddles along the road side.

"Why not? Why can't it?"

"Because it just doesn't"

"That's bullshit! You control your life, no one else. Who's stopping you?"

"Me," Ethan shouted, spinning around and looking at the girl, tears streaming down her face as she sat on the bed, wishing he'd just come over and comfort her, but he wasn't going to, because that wasn't what she needed. "I'm stopping myself because I owe it to Mark and Jack to find them. I owe it to Cricket and to Terry to make up for putting their lives in danger, and more importantly I owe it to myself to prove that for once in my fucking life I can see something through until the end."

"Even if it means dying and leaving me here alone?"

Gwen's words cut Ethan deeper than she would ever know, because whether he would admit it or not he loved her unconditionally, and the thought that she didn't realize that drove through him like a dagger. In his mind what he was doing was for them, tying up any loose ends and ensuring that once everything was normal, or at least as normal as it could get, that Gwen and him could live a normal life. She wanted an immediate solution though, unable to see that her personal desires weren't achievable without the closure of anything that may come back to haunt them. Gwen didn't care though, she had heard enough to know that she wasn't going to convince him to leave with her, and so she flung herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms around a pillow and began silently sobbing while Ethan watched onward, knowing that nothing he could say would satiate her.

As he stood there wondering what kind of life they might be able to lead if they did just up and leave, the door slowly creaked open, and through it walked Johnny, by himself and with a look of disambiguation, making it clear that this wasn't a social call. He nodded his head towards the hallway, and without hesitation Ethan followed him out, closing the door and leaving Gwen to contend with her own problems. Johnny leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette and rubbing his scars.

"There's gonna be a church meeting in thirty minutes downstairs," he stated, taking a hit and looking towards Ethan. "I expect you to be there, no questions asked, understood?"

"Understood," replied Ethan, nervous as to what was going on. Church was only for patched members, so for a prospect to be asked to come was never a good sign, especially given the circumstances.

"Good. Wait outside the door until I come get you, and don't make a fuckin' sound."

With that Johnny left Ethan standing in the hallway, wondering what was about to happen at the meeting, and at the same time wondering if he should try to go back into the room and fix things with Gwen. As he pushed his ear against the door his faced burned from the cuts, but he was more concerned with what was on the other side. He could hear muffled sobbing, an obvious sign that Gwen was still very upset with what she had been told, but he couldn't bring himself to walk back in and face her, he was simply too ashamed. Instead he chose to make his way downstairs and wait outside the boardroom until Johnny came looking for him, passing Olivia on his way down the stairs, and catching a snide look from her on the way by. Gwen must have texted her, and if Johnny was there it came as no surprise that Olivia had been downstairs, or right outside the door knowing how nosey she was when it came to club business. Ethan felt a ball of guilt forming in his stomach, as though it was somehow his fault that he had to save Mark, as though he should be held responsible for her feelings. It had to wait, however, and as he sat in the chair outside the boardroom he silently awaited whatever judgement Johnny was about to cast on him.

…

"Alright, kid, get in here." Johnny had a very solemn tone about him, as though whatever they were talking about was weighing very heavily on him, and for Ethan that was certainly a sign that nothing good was to come of this meeting. He couldn't care less though, as the events of the day had already seen fit to crucify whatever semblance of jubilance Ethan had left in him, and the incident with Gwen did no favors either, only making him feel worse about decisions that he had no control over. Personal feelings mattered little now, and as Ethan sluggishly drug himself through the boardroom behind Johnny he could feel the laser like stare of members bearing down on him with judging eyes, no doubt furious at the thought of having to not only wage a war of rebellion, but now worry about an attack from one of San Andreas' most violent Latin drug lords potentially coming at any moment.

"Stand here," demanded Johnny, leaving Ethan at the end of a long table whilst the president slowly walked to the opposite end, a limp in his gait, no doubt a permanent reminder of his run in with Trevor, and his mistakes from not so long ago. As Johnny slumped into his chair he slouched backwards, laying one arm over the side of his seat and bringing the other up to stroke his greying beard. The room was silent, and his gaze sliced through Ethan, staring right into his soul and judging the very moral fiber that constructed the young man's consciousness, but Ethan felt there wasn't much to judge as he began to sense the ghastly palms of doubt and depression wrapping their corroded digits around his mind.

"We've had a lot of shit goin' down around here lately," Johnny started. "Shootouts, lies, brothers turnin' on brothers. Well we're gonna put an end to all that right here, right now,"

Ethan felt himself start to tense up, knowing that Johnny was referring to his little adventure earlier that day, but at the same time he didn't care, in fact he was almost angry, and while the portion of his brain responsible for self-preservation was telling him to keep his mouth shut, another more eccentric voice in his head was prodding him to pick a fight. There was no way that he would walk out alive if something kicked off in the clubhouse, but just taking down a few assholes before they stomped his head in would certainly feel better than knowing he had let himself be verbally castrated.

"That's why you're here kid. There's been some talk that you might be workin' for the other side, given 'em some information about our little operation."

Johnny stood back up and walked back to the end of the table where he had left Ethan, dragging his hand along the chairs and monotonously stomping his boots with each step, only adding another layer of tension to the eerily silent room. As he finally made his way to Ethan he locked eyes with the prospect, staring straight at him, unblinking, while he got so close to his face that the two were almost touching noses. The odorous smell of Johnny's breath seemed to carry a weight, and as he opened his mouth to speak it only grew more intense.

"Well, wha'd'ya say to that, kid?"

"Bullshit," Ethan snapped back, maintaining eye contact and refusing to back down, not giving an inch, stern in his conviction to his response.

"And you just expect me to believe you?"

"Yeah… I do."

The two stood in total silence for what seemed to drag on into every bit of ten minutes, not a single out of place breath being taken by anyone in the room, leaving Ethan wondering to what end this charade served to justify. If Johnny wanted to make a point he simply could have killed the boy, or have a member publicly disgrace him by giving him a thrashing in front of the others, but what he was doing almost seemed mocking, as though Ethan wasn't good enough to even deserve a beating.

Suddenly Johnny moved, quickly slamming his right hand into Ethan's chest beside his shoulder and grabbing his left arm as he felt the boy going to push away, instead drawing him in closer and pushing harder against his chest. Something was off, Ethan could feel a lump under Johnny's hand, and as he looked down to see what the biker was pressing against him, he was shocked to see a handful of cloth and polymer; a patch. Ethan was stunned, looking back at Johnny, and then again down at his chest, both ecstatic and confused, then he started to laugh, and Johnny returned the gesture with a grin and a half chuckle before letting go of the boys arm. The grey skull with wings was new and brilliantly stood out, encapsulated on the top by ' _The Lost_ ' and the bottom by ' _Los Santos_ ', a shining symbol of the brotherhood and comradery that came with being a Lost member, and at the same time carrying with it the weight of being responsible for the entirety of the club. For three months Ethan had worked for his patch, surprised that he had gotten it so soon, and surprised even more that it was the reason for the church meeting that he had been expecting to be his first and only.

"I expect that to be sewn onto your cuts the minute you leave, Cowboy."

Johnny had never called Ethan by his nickname, instead referring to him as "kid, or "that one", it was different, but the newly patched member wasn't complaining, as it was almost like a sign of respect, like Johnny was saying in his own way, ' _Ya made it, kid_.'

"Yes, sir," Ethan replied with a nod of his head, almost jumping out of his skin with the excitement that was tearing through every inch of his being, and fighting the urge to run over and punch Cricket in the arm while flashing him the new patch. His newfound joy wouldn't last forever, though, and he quickly realized this when Johnny's pleased expression soon curdled into one of sour disgust, as obviously he was either remembering something he would have preferred not to, or he was going to make an announcement that meant big problems for the club. Either way, Ethan knew that he was about to say something in front of everyone that may carry with it dire consequences, or even threaten the sanctity of the club itself.

"I wanted to wait until you were patched before we started talkin' club business, so let's get started." Johnny returned to his seat at the front of the boardroom, and Cricket motioned Ethan to an empty chair next to himself. "We've come into some information regarding the Blaine County Chapter of the Lost, and I think it goes without sayin' that it could prove detrimental to us and the Lost's western chapters as a whole. I'm sure that by now we've all heard the rumors of this 'Wolf' mother fucker runnin' around and killin' our brothers. Well them rumors are true, and to top it off he's now the acting president of the Blaine County Chapter."

It was suddenly as if the entire room had come alive, members nearly throwing themselves upon the table with disgust, and all the while bellowing obscenities over the audacity that a chapter President would not only turn their backs on the Lost's unwritten code of brotherhood, but that a president would simple renounce his authority and allow such a vial murderer to take his place. Cricket, Terry and Ethan were the only three that didn't feel the need to interject their opinion into an already combative situation, which was fine, as Quick seemed to be doing enough shouting and chest pounding for the lot of them. Johnny, however, sat quietly, stoic and looking straight ahead while the men around him carried on like savages, demanding action be taken, and that Johnny stop allowing them to harass their fellow chapters. It was becoming evident, though, that the club President was growing ever more impatient with their incessant squabbling, as they demanded action, but offered no solution. Finally, Johnny had enough.

"Shut the fuck up!" The room fell silent, and as everyone turned to the head of the table it was noticeably apparent that Johnny was in no mood to be listening to their infighting. "Everyone sit the fuck down, and listen."

With that the boardroom was returned to order, and everyone felt obliged to listen to their superior and take a seat, all of them aside from one person that is. Quick was still standing, reeling from the fact that Johnny felt as though he could talk to him in such a demeaning tone, and furious yet still from the inaction that Johnny had taken since they had been driven out of Blaine County.

"This is fuckin' horse shit, Johnny," sneered Quick through gritted teeth, pointing a judging finger and piercing through the man with eyes lit like the fiery intensity of a napalm strike. "Ever since we got run out by them dickheads we've all jus' had t' lay back an' take every blow they've thrown at us on the chin. Well I've had 'bout enough, and I know there's some other who feel the same."

Johnny crossed his arms for a moment, then scratched his right eyelid while shaking his head in a confirming manner, but it was painfully obvious that he wasn't agreeing with Quick, but rather thinking of a retaliatory statement. He stood up and walked to his right, standing face to face with the Vice President and longtime friend, knowing full well that he couldn't allow Quick's undermining of his authority to go unpunished. Placing his right palm on Quick's shoulder Johnny looked at his boots, again shaking his head in an agreeing manner, then looking back at his compatriots face. Catching Quick off guard Johnny cracked the burly man across the face with a sucker punch that sent him stumbling into the men sitting behind just to his rear.

"Don't you ever think you can talk to me like that," Johnny growled, watching as Quick regained his footing and grasped at the side of his face, already red from the blow. "Anyone else have an issue with how I'm runnin' shit?"

No one spoke up, but after that display who could blame them, Johnny would have probably just beat the next agitator to death, as it was painfully apparent he had held back when he attacked Quick. With a hushed silence cast over the room the two men returned to their seats, and Johnny took a minute to compose himself, disgusted at the fact that this rebellion within the club had taken such a toll on the loyalty of his Chapter.

"Alright," he continued. "What I was tryin' to finish sayin' was that they've also denounced their Lost memberships and decided to completely reorganize themselves as the Los Pistoleros. No doubt it's their new President tryin' to build a seperate identity for the club. That means from this point on it's no holds bar fighting; any Pistoleros you see in our territory is to be shot dead on sight."

 _Who is this guy,_ Ethan thought to himself. _How could one guy take over as president of a club in just a few months, one whose members he was actively killing not but two months ago, and completely reorganize it?_

The meeting was only generating more questions which no one seemed to have the answers to, but it couldn't be dwelled on, as Johnny already had a plan in motion to contend with the new threats.

"As a little welcome to the block gift for our newest neighbors I've decided we're gonna launch a raid on one of their new meth labs. They've been poppin' up all over the god damn place, and while I'm not sure where they're gettin' the cash to set these up, I know for sure that we're gonna be the pricks to knock 'em down. Terry, I want you, Cricket, Skid and Cowboy to set up this raid. No survivors, nothin' left standin'. Understood?"

"Gotcha," replied Terry, never uncrossing his arms.

"Good, then let's go over business as usual."

The remainder of the meeting was uneventful, with the majority of talks revolving around trying to revitalize the Lost's gun smuggling business in the region without drawing too much attention from law enforcement. Other topics included an upcoming poker run, the annual Lost meeting in Las Ventura for all American Chapters, and raising the price of beer at the bar by a few cents, nothing too pressing, and certainly nothing noteworthy. While the cabinet members rambled on about daily activities, Ethan couldn't help but think of how guilty he felt for leaving Gwen crying and alone in his room. There was no doubt that Olivia's arrival on the scene had only painted him as a larger scumbag than he already felt he was, as the woman had a profound way of exacerbating the situation and making everything worse off than when she arrived. He had decided that when the meeting let out he would rush to his room and hope that she was there, then apologize for the way he acted, but certainly not for his obligations to his friends and brothers.

Church had droned on for what felt like an eternity, the way any meeting does when one has allowed themselves to become preoccupied with its closure rather than taking a vested interest in the happenings. When it finally did conclude, however, Ethan was one of the first few out, but not wanting to seem overly eager to leave, as it may paint him in a negative light, he chose to linger until some others had made their way out. Hastily climbing the stairs two at a time he reached the top, bounding down the hallway and swinging his door open, only to find that the bed had been made, and there was no one anywhere to be found. Ethan spun on his heels and turned back out through the door, leaning against the frame and hating himself for having been too late. There was no doubt that by now Gwen and Olivia had gallivanted off to somewhere, a clothing store no doubt, to drown sorrow in the overpriced, poorly constructed textiles that had come to represent the indulgencies of American consumerism.

At the far end of the hall he heard a thud, and looking under Gwen's door he saw a shadow that only briefly swept past, at least giving him the faintest glimmer of hope that she hadn't yet left. Striding down the hall Ethan came upon the door rapidly and opened it with a swift turn of the knob, revealing a somewhat stunned and partially dressed Gwen standing by her dresser. The room had changed since he'd last entered, the walls were repainted a vibrant light blue, and much of the old, worn furniture had been replaced with newer, if not more cheaply constructed pieces that resembled build it yourself kits imported from Switzerland. Even the smell of the room had undergone a transition from the foul and odorous tinge of beer and vomit, to the flowery scents that now seemed to fill every corner and crevice. Drawing his attention back to the shocked woman, Ethan quickly closed the door, realizing that Gwen was only sporting an emerald green thong and matching socks.

"Gwen," he started, crossing the room, snapping the girl back from her daze. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier, I shouldn't have been so short with you, I jus-"

"No," she interrupted. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so sensitive."

Gwen paused for a brief moment to collect her thoughts, no longer than a few seconds, looking down at the floor and biting her lip, then returning her attention to Ethan, who seemed to just be standing there dumbfounded. He tried to talk again, but she wouldn't let him, and cut him off before he could even begin to speak.

"I thought that we were more than what we were, and when I said what I did it was out of line."

"More than what we were?" Ethan questioned her, confused as to why she would say something like that, but he soon realized that in all the time that they had been together neither of them ever definitively said what their relationship had become. "What do _you_ think we are? Are we just friends… or is there something more here?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

Ethan hesitated to answer, unsure of what the young woman wanted to hear, but knowing in his heart that they had become more than just friends during the time they had spent together, and he wanted more than just a companion out of their relationship. Instead of giving her an answer he walked over and took her hand, walking over to the bed side with her and sitting down, her bare leg pressed against his faded denim jeans. Gwen's red hair partially covered her face, and her pale skin glowed in contrast to the dark lighting of the room, but Ethan couldn't stand to look her in the eyes, and instead drew his gaze to the floor. Finally, he mustered the courage and looked straight at her, saying:

"I don't know what you want us to be, but I know that I can't sit here and pretend that there isn't something between us. Gwen, you're an amazing woman with a great sense of humor that is just perfect in every way, and I want you to kno-"

Before he could finish Gwen jumped on top of him, pressing her lips against his and wrapping herself around him, the two intertwined on her bed, rolling across the sheets as Ethan tried to take off his jacket. As the pair proceeded on Ethan thought to himself that her intervention was certainly a stroke of luck, as he hadn't really thought through a way to end what he was trying to say, but he certainly wasn't complaining.

…

Cricket hadn't even bothered to knock when he opened the door to Gwen's room, and upon seeing her and Ethan both stark naked and lying under her red sheets he found himself slightly pleased that he hadn't, as seeing the new member in his birthday suit was certainly fodder he could torment the poor boy with later.

"Hope I din't interrupt nothin'," Cricket remarked with a grin as Gwen gasped and quickly threw the covers up over her exposed body.

"Nope," returned Ethan. "Just getting' ready to leave."

He stood up and tossed the covers off himself, revealing a few tender areas that Cricket wished he had kept private, but if there was one thing being a Lost member taught Ethan, it was that nothing stayed private for long, so he wasn't too hard-pressed to hide himself.

"Jesus Christ, boyo," blasted Cricket. "Put some feckin' trousers on and get yer hairy, white arse downstairs, Terry's waitin' on us."

"You got it."

As Cricket closed the door and wandered back off down the hall he could be heard talking to himself until he reached the steps, clearly still stunned by the package that Ethan had presented him with. While he slid into his jeans and pulled the white tank top over his head, Gwen rolled onto her side and looked at her man, running her hands down his back as he sat to lace his boots up, then flopping onto her back and staring at the ceiling with a pleasantly satisfied smile pursed across her lips.

"So what's Terry want," she asked. "Cricket seemed to be in a hurry."

Ethan was hesitant to tell her what Johnny had said at the meeting the night before, but he realized that if he couldn't tell Gwen these private things then they only ran the risk of having even further problems down the road. She had also proven to be quite a trustworthy consiglieri, so he felt that she wouldn't go running her mouth to everyone in the club, as Olivia had probably already done.

"We're goin' on a raid," Ethan finally returned, standing up and throwing on his jacket.

"A raid?" Gwen sat up in bed, letting the blanket fall from her breasts and supporting herself against the headboard. "Why?"

"The Blaine County Chapter of the Lost is under new management, call themselves Los Pistoleros now, so Johnny wants us to send them a message that we're done going easy on them. Don't tell anyone, though, I could get in a shit load of trouble."

"Is it gonna be dangerous?"

"Very."

"God dammit," Gwen moaned, getting up and walking across the bed. She jumped down and marched over to stand in front of Ethan with her hands on her hips, hardly the intimidating presence as she poised herself in front of him completely nude. "Did you even think how I would feel about this? We finally figure this shit out and now you're off to potentially get killed? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ethan bit his tongue, not wanting to instigate another fight between them, but knowing that regardless of what he said to her Gwen would ultimately be either disgusted or infuriated by his answer.

"It wasn't my choice," he started. "Johnny asked me to do this, I couldn't say no."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because… because this is who I am, who we are. This is our life, Gwen. It ain't glamorous, but we're not on the streets, and for as rough as a lot of these guys are, they're our friends, and they treat us like family."

Gwen was furious that he would try to play against her emotions, but she knew that regardless of how she felt that Ethan was right, and he very well couldn't turn down Johnny considering that he was letting them stay without even having to pay rent. The Club was like a family, and even though there were times when she wished that they could get away from the drugs and violence, she wouldn't want to trade in any of the friends she had made during their stay.

"Shit," Ethan muttered, clasping pieces of fabric in his hands.

"What's wrong?" Gwen walked over to see what he was holding in his hand, and quickly saw that it was a large patch, three separate pieces to be exact, and they were the same patches that she had seen all the patched members of the club wearing. That's when it hit her, the meeting must have been to patch Ethan in as a member, and as quickly as her pride for him came it again went, realizing that Ethan must've been thinking about their fight during the whole ceremony, not even getting to enjoy his first meeting with the others.

"I forgot to sew this on last night," Ethan replied.

"Leave your jacket with me, I'll sew it on while you're talkin' with the guys."

"You sure?

"Not a problem."

Gwen took the patches from his hand and helped him to slide back out of the leather jacket, departing with the materials as she gave him a peck on the check and walked over to her dresser to pull out a small sewing kit. Ethan admired the view as she strode away, her ass waving back and forth in almost a farewell manner, beckoning the young man to leave the room and make his way downstairs where Terry and Cricket were waiting.

He quickly trotted down the steps, tucking his pistol back into its now exposed holster under his arm, and hoping against odds that no one would notice that he wasn't wearing his cuts. As soon as he rounded the corner, however, he realized that he would have no such luck, as Terry shot him a confused and slightly irritated look.

"Where's yer cuts," Terry questioned, but before Ethan had a chance to respond a hand slapped across Terry's back, and Cricket was quick to speak on the boy's behalf.

"Someone 'ere had a rough go of it last night, Terry, so cut 'im some slack, yeah? After what I saw this mornin' ya outta be glad the little shite din't ferget 'is feckin' pants!"

"I'll take yer word," Terry returned with a slight chuckle, turning his attention back to Ethan and beckoning him to come and sit at the table. "We're just waitin' on Skid, then we can get started."

As the trio sat down and bought a round of drinks, Skid finally came in through the clubhouse doors, out of breath and in a hurry, as it was obvious he had been rushing to get back on time. Ethan hadn't had much time to really get to know Skid since his arrival, as he tended to hang out with Quick and a few others who didn't frequent the clubhouse all too often, but he certainly didn't seem like a bad kid by any means. Well, for a biker anyway. Ethan had been told that Skid was Quick's nephew, the boy was barely old enough to buy cigarettes and he was already being thrust into the bloody and gruesome world of one percenter motorcycle clubs, nevertheless he was capable, good with a gun and had obviously been riding since he was a child. Quick tended to baby him, though, and it made him a target for ridicule when he was alone with the other members, so he was always looking for a fight, a way to prove himself. After hearing how Ethan had saved Johnny, Skid grew somewhat jealous, as he had always been trying to prove to Johnny that he was just as capable as any other member, but he also understood that no one would truly respect him until he stepped out from Quick's shadow.

"Good," Terry stated upon seeing the boy enter. "We can finally get this show on the road."

There was no maps, no schematics or plans laid out in great detail, just a cell phone that the four men gathered around as Terry pulled up a satellite map of San Andreas, then proceeded to zoom in on a small structure located in the Tataviam Mountains. The image was a top view, but it was crisp and clear, showing that what Ethan had originally thought to be a singular structure in the middle of nowhere was actually a small compound hidden well away from any prying eyes with several substructures built around what looked like a primary facility. If Terry could find it so easily on a satellite map, however, it raised the question as to why someone like the police couldn't just do the same. It seemed to make very little sense, but as Terry lay the phone down and began to talk, it was soon apparent as to why no one had stepped in sooner.

"This is the place," he started, lighting a cigarette and lifting it to his lips. "It's an old homestead up in the mountains those fuckers converted into a cookhouse. Place is filled with a shit load of meth, crank, PCP, and enough fuckin' guns to take on the Los Santos PD, who hav no idea anyone is even living there right now."

"So what's the plan," Skid questioned with eagerness in his voice. He was surprisingly well spoken, with a white collar accent reminiscent of the typical San Andrea suburban teen, nothing like his uncle, whose spoke with a tone of someone who had spent a majority of their life in the rural flat land of Blaine County. "How're we gonna fuck 'em up?"

"You ain't gonna do shit," Terry retorted. By the tone in his voice it was apparent that he was none too pleased with having to take someone so inexperienced along, but Johnny had requested that he go, no doubt to satiate the kid's want to hang with the big dogs. "After the sun goes down we're gonna drive to about two miles outside the compound, then creep in the rest of the way. Once we get in we'll plant explosives in the lab and gun storage locations, then exfil and blow the cock suckers sky high."

"Well what the fuck am _I_ gonna do then?"

"You'll stay with the van and make sure we don't get caught."

Skid was blatantly agitated that Terry wasn't going to let him have a larger part in their plan, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and not get on the bad side of the Sergeant-at-Arms. Terry could clearly care less what the kid's opinions of him were, the fact was that Skid was inexperienced, unpredictable, and trying too hard to impress people that genuinely didn't care enough to cast him a passing glance. Having rode on his uncle's curtails, and received his patch too early without even going through his prospect phase, many viewed him with disdain, though he personally had never done anything to incur this sour attitude held by many in the club. Terry snuffed his cigarette and turned back to Cricket and Ethan, putting his phone back in his pocket and ushering them outside. As Ethan walked past Skid it was apparent that he was receiving quite an evil glare, no doubt wishing that their roles were reversed, but Ethan gave no quarter and shot back a scowl of his own, forcing the young man to relent his gaze and look towards the floor.

As the men walked through the doors of the club a large black van awaited them outside, sitting on large 32 inch rims with aggressive tread tires and a six inch lift kit, more of a war wagon than a cargo van at this point, but no one complained. As the doors opened the trio were greeted by a small, breathtaking arsenal that Terry had accumulated for their mission, taking pride as Cricket and Ethan gawked on in wonder and bewilderment. Ethan had grown up in a rural town, so firearms had become something of a hobby for him, tinkering, gunsmithing and performing odds and end work for his friends and family, and eventually gathering quite a collection of military surplus arms, AR15s and AKMs. His small stock was nothing compared to what Terry had brought though, making a NOOSE team's loadout look like they were simply going deer hunting.

"We'll be using these bad puppies," said Terry, pulling down two Vom Feuer Carbines from the side panels. Ethan took one, inspecting the rifle over and admiring the craftsmanship on the barrel, as well as how well balanced the gun was considering the somewhat shocking weight. Terry had put some suppressors on the rifles, but it was apparent that a firefight in the compound was only to be a last ditch effort to escape if the men had found out, as even suppressed each shot would still be fairly noticeable.

"So how we goin' about this, then," asked Cricket, letting the bolt carrier on the rifle slam closed as he released the charging handle.

"We'll stick together," returned Terry. "There's no point in splitting up, it only makes us more vulnerable. Come in from the south, hit the barn, farmhouse and garage, then pull out and light if off like a fireworks display."

The plan was simple and straightforward, which meant that it was hard to screw anything up, even Skid couldn't mess up as long as he listened to Terry, but Ethan was more than ready. For once he felt like he wasn't nervous about walking straight into a gunfight, especially not after his shootout the previous day. It was a strange feeling, however, no longer having the same fear of being shot or killed when the bullets started flying, and to some extent it worried him that perhaps he was already getting too used to this style of living again. On one hand he was adapting, a trait that he wouldn't have made it without, but on the other hand the act of killing was becoming something of a benign fact of life, murder was the societal norm, even going as far as to be encouraged within the club, and while Ethan himself wouldn't have normally given it a second thought, he wondered how Gwen's views of him would change if she saw the person he was becoming.

 **Hello to my loyal readers, and to those who have been waiting for the continuation of the story I'm dreadfully sorry that it has taken me this long to finally be able to sit down and continue it. I know that these aren't the action packed chapters filled with the violence and gore that we've come to love throughout the GTA franchise, but I can assure you that they are coming, and sooner than you think. I've been trying to build a strong romantic subplot between the two main characters, and in doing so it may seem that I've diverted from the essence of the game, but I feel that character development and strong supporting stories are just as integral to success as the main plot is. If anyone has any input, or feels that something just isn't finding an appropriate niche within the story, feel free to drop a comment in the reviews, or Private Message me. I'm always open to criticism, and keeping in contact with the reader base is as important to me as the story itself.**


	11. Baptism By Fire

**Chapter 11: Baptism By Fire**

Gwen had just finished getting dressed when the knock came at the door, Olivia's signature three taps and a thud that she had become rather familiar with during their friendship, but if she was coming to see Gwen so early it could only mean that she had intended to employ her for some help outside the clubhouse. It had become painfully apparent that while many of the members talked a big game, it was the mamas and old ladies who kept a lot of the club operations in motion, especially when it came to the whiter collar crimes they committed, though there were a few exceptions. Olivia was a sort of ring leader, sending the girls to collect owed money, gathering materials like guns and drug manufacturing equipment, really anything that would draw the attention of the LSPD if a burly, tattooed biker showed up the women were in charge of, assuming that it wasn't _too_ dangerous. Gwen had never been asked to do anything exceptionally life threatening, and she made it a point to never undermine her own standards by performing anything sexually demeaning, something she vocalized adamantly to Olivia upon her agreement to assist however she could.

As Gwen hurriedly threw on her sneakers Olivia knocked at the door again, clearly growing more impatient the longer she was made to wait, though she could have simply entered as she pleased like so many times before.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Gwen grumbled. "Don't get your panties in a knot."

"Well move a little quicker," Olivia shouted back, her voice muffled through the door, but still just as shrill as ever. "We've gotta make a deadline."

Bumbling towards the exit and almost tripping over her own feet in the process, Gwen finally opened the heavy wooden door, revealing not only Olivia, but another woman who Gwen had never met before. Her blonde hair was cut short, shorter than most of the girls in the clubhouse, and her lips were thick, almost coated with lipstick, which matched the seemingly caked on makeup that she had applied in coats. As Gwen looked her over she realized that she couldn't have been any older than twenty, and her figure seemed to be teetering a thin line between high metabolism and anorexia, but even for her young age and sultry appearance the girl was surprisingly attractive in her skinny jeans and ULSA tee shirt. Olivia extended her arms in a showcasing manner, as though she were showing off the girl next to her, and said:

"This is Alexis, my little cousin and the newest mama."

"Oh," returned Gwen with a shocked tone, as Olivia had never mentioned anything about someone joining the club, especially not someone so young. "Well, it's certainly nice to meet you, Alexis."

"You too," returned the young girl, taking Gwen's extended arm with both hands and shaking it vigorously. "It's really nice to meet you. Olivia's told me all about you."

"All good I hope."

"Don't worry, princess," Olivia retorted. "I haven't said nothin' that hasn't already made its way around. Now come on, we got shit to do."

Gwen smiled and followed Olivia down into the bar, where Johnny was sitting and talking to what looked like a politician, or maybe an accountant, but out of place in his gray suit nonetheless. The man's eyes soon looked past Johnny to the trio coming down the steps, and as he cast his gaze upon them Gwen found herself eerily unsettled by the strange look that he held, almost reminiscent of a starving dog looking at a freshly butchered steak, rabid to say the least. Johnny looked back in tow, and Olivia made her way over to him, sitting down on his lap and whispering something into his one good ear, certainly something that had to do with wherever the women were going, as Johnny had slipped a large wad of cash into Olivia's cleavage before she walked away. As Olivia beckoned them towards the door the two men returned to their conversation, but the man in gray never really seemed to take his eyes off the girls, Alexis in particular, as he followed them clear until they were out the door.

Even after they had left the club and were walking around back to Olivia's truck, Gwen couldn't help but feel as though the man in gray was still watching them, like he was peering straight through the wall and taking note of everything they were doing. It was obviously just paranoia, but understandable nevertheless, as a man with eyes as vicious as his tend to leave lasting impressions that are hard to shake. Upon approaching the Bobcat, Gwen reasserted her attention, and as they climbed in, Alexis sliding to the uncomfortably small rear seat, Olivia started the truck and began to count the money that Johnny had given her. The wad of cash easily numbered in the tens of thousands, and the other two girls gawked on in awe, as they had never seen that much cash in their lives, let alone in one pile.

"Where the hell are we going with that much cash," Gwen inquired.

"We've got a little pick up to make down by the port," Olivia returned, stuffing the cash into her purse and pulling out of the lot. "I figured that this would be a perfect way to break in Alexis."

"So why drag me along then?"

"Because I at least need someone I trust watching my back."

Olivia had peaked Gwen's interest, as most of the errands that she sent her and the others on were simple, usually never requiring more than one person, and they certainly never needed someone watching their back. As the Bobcat cut through the turns on its way to the port all manner of troubling thoughts tore through Gwen's mind as she wondered who they were meeting, and why this person warranted a three woman job.

"Who're we meeting that makes you so nervous?"

"I'm not nervous, I just don't trust this squirmy little weasel."

"Can I at least know a name?"

"I suppose that since I'm dragging you along I may as well tell you."

"Oh, please," interjected Alexis. "You would've told us by the time we got there anyway. Everyone knows you can't keep your mouth shut."

"Seriously!?" Olivia was furious at what the girl had said, making accusations that, while truthful, still hurt. "I'm lettin' you live with me free of charge and givin' you work, yet there you sit throwin' insults."

"Sorry, Livvy," Alexis poked back with a smile.

"Livvy?" Gwen chuckled at the childish nickname and wondered if that was familial, or if it was just Alexis' way of getting under the woman's skin.

"Don't you fuckin' start," Olivia shot back.

"Fine, fine. You were about to tell us where we were going, though?"

"Right. Terry set up a meeting to get some guns from this shitbag who we've done business with a couple of times. Well, since Terry and some of the other guys are out of town for the time being, Johnny decided I could handle it."

"I take it you and this guy we're going to meet don't get along well?"

"That's an understatement. We've tried doin' business with 'im before, but he always either fucks it up, or tries to take the money and run."

"So why trust him this time?" Normally in the world of illegal dealings someone only manages to get away with a slip up once or twice, but Olivia made it sound like he's screwed them multiple times.

"Because this time he's supposedly got everything together, just needs the money and we're golden."

"What's his name," Alexis pried, trying not to be left out of the conversation.

"Lamar Davis," Olivia returned. "Small time gangbanger with a list of enemies long enough to hang yourself."

The remainder of the ride was uneventful, mainly just Alexis and Olivia throwing inside jokes back and forth at one another to Gwen's expense, but aside from the occasional lewd remark they reached the port without incident. The midday sun was pounding down on the docks, and the salt latent humidity hung low and thick on the air, bringing beads of sweat to Gwen's neck even though she was tucked away in the air conditioned comfort of the truck. As Olivia drove to the eastern most section of the port, a storage area with shipping crates stacked nearly six high, it became apparent that whatever was about to happen the seller didn't want to be seen by the local law enforcement, or _any_ witnesses for that matter. Rounding a container with a sign identifying it as 'Row G', a tall, lanky black man leaning up against a black Albany Emperor sat midway down the aisle, a thick gold chain about his neck, and a flat bill cap embroidered with an "LS". Olivia slowed down and rolled the truck to a stop about ten yards away from the man, who was now walking towards the truck looking back and forth, clearly paranoid.

"You have a gun, right?" Olivia looked at Gwen, then opened the console between them and revealed a 9mm pistol tucked away. Gwen was shocked, and immediately began to get queasy as the thought of having to partake in another gunfight crept into the back of her mind, as all she could think about was the man she had shot before. It was in self-defense of another, and there was no doubt that had the thug been given enough time to react he would have come for Gwen too, but the sight of all the blood, and the man slumping to the floor as he gripped his guts, made the poor girl feel guilty. Ethan had told her that he was glad she didn't take another's life so easily, and that she should never pull the trigger and feel proud of what she had done, because that would lead her down a dark path. For now though she had to feign strength, as not only did she not want Olivia to think less of her, but she realized that it may be all three of their lives on the line if she couldn't react.

"Don't worry," Gwen smiled back. "I brought my own."

Olivia smiled back and nodded as Gwendolyn unholstered her SNS and hung her arm down beside the door where it wasn't visible, trying to suppress the urge to start shaking as the young black man who she assumed was Lamar approached the door.

"What up, Te-." Lamar was caught off guard upon seeing the three women in the truck, as he obviously expected Terry to be the one picking up the guns. "Yo, hold up, where Terry at, mutha fucka?"

"Preoccupied," Olivia said in an annoyed, dull tone. "We're here to pick up the shipment for him."

"Nah, I had a deal with Terry, dawg. No T, then Lamar is out, ya heard?"

He began to back away from the door, but Olivia quickly pulled out the bag of money and threw it at Lamar, who just barely managed to catch it as he gazed into it and smiled with the wonder of a child on Christmas. Pretending to count the bills, Lamar rifled through them sounding out random numbers while he bit his lip, obviously too excited to actually see if all of his cash was there, though he knew that the Lost weren't going to screw him, and even if they did he wasn't going to throw away his life going after a biker gang.

"Aight, aight. So maybe we can do some bidness," Lamar finally said, shoving the wad of bills into his pants and tossing the cloth bag aside. "Drive down t' ma whip and I'll give you th' shit, yeah?"

After allowing Lamar to return to his car, Olivia put the truck in gear and began her slow approach to the Emperor, scanning the shipping crates for any sign of suspicious movement, indicating that Gwen and Alexis should be doing the same. Gwen gripped her .380 tightly, darting her eyes back and forth and nervously awaiting whatever fresh hell had intended to present itself, but as they rolled to a stop she took a deep breath, glad that Lamar hadn't decided to betray them. The trunk of the Emperor cracked open, and the tall, lanky gangster motioned for them to come out and get their shipment, as he clearly had no intention of doing any heavy lifting unless it was absolutely necessary. Olivia obliged him, though, and stepped out of the truck, taking her place next to Lamar and grabbing for a wooden crate. Upon trying to lift the heavy crate she soon realized that it would be a two woman job, and seeing as how her seller had no intentions of doing anything, she motioned to Gwen to come and give her a hand.

As the redhead stepped out of the truck and away from the tinted windows, however, it took Lamar only a moment to realize that one of his contacts had not so long ago attempted to kill him.

"Hey, yo, hold up," he stated, standing from his leaning position on the trunk of his car. "You that mu' fucka' that shot Doughboy."

He quickly tried to reach for the gun that was holstered in the front of his pants, but as he fumbled to untangle the firearm from the buttons in his shirt he felt the familiar cold of a steel pistol barrel against his head. Unbeknownst to Lamar, Olivia had been concealing a Hawk & Little Heavy Revolver inside her waistband, which surprised even Gwen, as the frame of the pistol hadn't been visible at all, even with Olivia's relatively slim physique. Lamar raised his hands into the air in a surrendering motion, as it was obvious that someone had beaten him to the draw, and any sudden movements could be his last.

"You really wanna try that," asked Olivia.

"Naw, we cool, G," stuttered Lamar with the tone of a skidish child.

"Are you sure? Because it looked like you were about to do somethin' you might regret?"

"Naw, naw. What I was sayin' was that she th' mu' fucka' what shot Doughboy, but, uh, it's all cool, see? That mu' fucka' needed cut loose real bad anyway, nigga. He's cuttin' into profit, and when a nigga cut into profit he ain't no nigga o' mine"

Olivia pressed the gun harder into the back of Lamar's head, prompting the man to let out a grumble of humility and nervousness, but Olivia didn't ease off, as she remembered the day Lamar was talking about, when he forced her and the patrons of the liquor store to the floor and proceeded to assault an old man. For Gwen the memory was all too real, and the thought of having to face the man whose friend she killed didn't sit well on her stomach, as she could feel her throat start to knot up, and stomach bile began to creep into her mouth. She couldn't think, and everything was starting to become a blur as all the containers felt as though they would start spinning at any moment, but she was trying not to give into this urge to simply faint. It wouldn't solve anything.

"So that was you then?" Olivia was becoming increasingly agitated towards the man, and as her hatred grew she found herself grinding the barrel of the revolver into Lamar's skull. "Yer the piss ant that pushed me on the ground and threatened me?"

"Yo, listen, homie," Lamar pleaded, thinking of a way to convince her not to kill him. "I'm sorry, truly, so how 'bout I cut you a deal? 10% off the merch', how's that?"

Olivia cocked the hammer on her gun.

"Okay, 15%!" Lamar felt as though his pleas were falling on deaf ears, but luckily for him Olivia would never get the chance to pull the trigger.

"Man, they over here," a voice shouted from off in the distance. There was no doubt, they had been found out, but the only question was by whom? The sound of feet could be heard coming from several rows away, at least a dozen men, and by the sounds of the rattling that accompanied their running they were either wearing a lot of chains, or they were packing some serious heat. Olivia and Lamar both looked back towards the sound of the shuffling feet, neither one concerned anymore with their previous negotiations, but both now worried that they were about to be gunned down by some mysterious voices.

"Were you followed," Olivia questioned.

"I don't know, nigga. I mean, naw, definitely not. I mean, shit mu' fucka' I don't know!" Lamar was obviously trying to cover the fact that he hadn't been keen on checking for tails, but he was doing a rather poor job of it.

"You got fuckin' followed! Shit!" Olivia ran towards a concrete barrier that was parallel to Lamar's car and then looked back towards Gwen, who was obviously still in a daze. "Gwen, get Alexis and move the guns into the truck!"

Upon hearing Olivia's voice the young woman snapped to, cramming her pistol back into her waist and turning back to get Alexis, but the girl had already jumped out of the truck and was barreling towards the Emperor. Gwen shot towards the car as well and looked into the trunk only to find that there were two midsized wooden boxes in the back. Their relatively small size was deceiving, as upon Gwen's first attempt to pick one up she realized that they weighed easily over one hundred pounds, there was no doubt her and Alexis would have to work together and make two separate trips.

Gwen grabbed one side, signaling Alexis to grab the other, and as the duo pulled the first box out of the trunk a Latin man wearing a yellow dew rag rounded the corner sporting a sharp looking AKM pattern assault rifle. Olivia raised herself from over the cover she had been hunkered behind and fired a round down the aisle, the .454 Cassul round rocketing through the air at subsonic speeds. The man with the AK shouted in pain as his body was forced backwards and onto the ground, where he lay writhing in pain, his left lung slowly filling with blood, and an exit wound the size of a grapefruit now permanently excavated into his torso. The pistol was ready to claim another victim, but none came, as anyone who was behind the man surely saw what fate await them if they foolishly charged into the open. It was quiet for a few moments, the only sound heard being the two women loading the first crate into the Bobcat, panting to catch their breath, and then running back for the second. Lamar crouched against his car with a 9mm he had pulled from the waistband of his pants, nervously anticipating the attack that he was sure would occur at any moment, and watching as Olivia squatted in stoic silence, listening and waiting for any out of place sounds or movement

From over the crates she finally heard it, and so had the others. The sound of clanking metal resonated down the row of crates as sneakers and boots bounded against the shipping containers on their right flank. Just as the first of the men crested the great metal wall, Alexis and Gwen snatched up the second crate, this one even heavier than the last, and looked on as Lamar pointed his gun to the sky and shouted:

"Yo, lookout, foo'. They on th' containers!"

He fired a triage of rounds towards the first attackers who came over the crates, missing all three shots as he haphazardly fired without direction, holding his gun sideways and clutching at his falling shorts. Olivia wasn't as careless, taking precise aim and sending a shot crashing into an attacker's chest, lunging him off the crate and down over the edges, where he was heard landing with a sickening wet crunch. This did little to deter the others, however, and they continued their climb under a shroud of fire, until the first reached the top and drew his SMG, pointing it at the black Emperor and spraying an indiscriminant stream of lead across the tailgate of the vehicle. Lamar was forced to dive for cover and resituate himself at the hood of the vehicle, firing another volley, this time striking the man who had so recklessly peppered his precious car with unnecessary brutality.

"Yeah, that's right, mu' fucka'," he shouted as the man fell forward off the containers. "Ain't nobody fuck wit' my shit."

A second gunman opened up on Lamar's position with a pistol similar to his own, sending the would be gangster scurrying back for cover like a puppy caught in a hailstorm. As more men began to pour over the walls, it became dreadfully apparent that they wouldn't be able to hold out for much longer, as the sounds of automatic fire were only intensifying. Olivia had become pinned down, and Lamar offered little in the way of assistance, as he seemed more concerned with saving his own life than the lives of the three women now struggling to avoid stray fire. Alexis and Gwen struggled to heave the last box into the bed of the Bobcat, eventually slamming the cumbersome crate onto the tailgate before Gwen knocked it forward with a hearty shove and closed the rearend. Looking at Alexis with a somewhat halfhearted smile celebrating their accomplishment, she caught something moving just behind the young girl. A man clad in a yellow jersey had jumped down off the containers, and was running straight for them with a pistol drawn.

"Lookout," cried Gwen, throwing Alexis to the ground just as the man fired at them, sending a volley of 9mm rounds ripping through the air, grazing Gwen's arm and sending the woman stumbling backwards onto the cold, wet asphalt. Before she could react the man was nearly on top of the duo, pointing his firearm straight at them, his face veiled behind a yellow and black bandana, though by the look in his eyes Gwen knew that hidden behind his makeshift shawl was a devilishly wicked smile, relishing in the fact he was about to execute defenseless women. As he loomed over Alexis, pointing the barrel straight down and at her head, Gwen saw his finger began to slowly pull back on trigger, and in that moment she found herself impetuously reaching for her SNS pistol. It was too late, though, as the world seemed to move in slow motion upon hearing the sound of the trigger release the hammer, then the hammer striking the firing pin, and finally.. a click?

He was out of ammo, and Gwen had already drawn a bead on him. The man fumbled for another magazine, but she didn't hesitate, pulling the trigger, then again and again, until Alexis' assailant lay slain on the ground, three small bullet holes oozing crimson blood into the grimy dirt, and mixing into an antifreeze latent puddle. She couldn't believe what she had done, again having killed another person to save the life of someone else, but this time was different, and she wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. The world wasn't spinning like it had before, and she was completely coherent to her surroundings, the sound of gunfire and ricocheting bullets still as prominent as ever, but there was still the same uneasy feeling in her stomach, and she knew what came next. Quickly rolling over onto her side, Gwen began to vomit uncontrollably, a mixture of green and brown splattering across the ground, the sight of which only caused more vomiting.

It didn't take long until there was nothing left to throw up, but Gwen didn't want to anymore, her throat hurt, and the acidic burn was starting to wear on her mouth, which tasted rotten and caused her to choke again. She pulled herself to sit on her haunches, looking down at her knees, then turning to where Alexis lay. She soon realized that the young woman wasn't moving, instead just shaking, and taking in deep breaths while grasping at her side, which was now straming blood at a fairly steady rate. The girl had been shot, probably as Gwen had thrown her to the ground, and she now lay there gasping for what precious little air she could find. The young girl looked towards Gwen, her eyes glazed over with tears of pain and fear, unable to make any noise aside from unintelligible guttural moans that seemed to crawl from her mouth and topple to the ground.

Gwen looked on in horror, also unable to make any sensible words as she mouthed nothing more than empty air in an attempt to get Olivia's attention, stuttering for what seemed like an eternity before she finally formed a coherent sentence.

"O… O… Oliv…Olivia," She cried out, jetting off her knees and scrambling to Alexis' side. "Olivia, Alexis… Alexis got shot! Olivia, Alexis got shot!"

Olivia turned around and watched on horror as Gwen frantically tried to apply pressure to the wound, but it seemed to be doing little good as the blood continued to pour out, cutting the girls chances of survival shorter with each drip. She fired off three rounds and sprinted from her cover, ignoring the hail of gunfire that was landing around her feet, and making a dash for the other two women on the ground behind the Bobcat. Lamar followed in suite, as their attackers were quickly gaining ground, having pushed nearly halfway up the shipping container row, and intensifying their attack to try and make a final push to eradicate their targets. Diving behind the rear passenger fender of the truck, Lamar returned fire as best he could, only peeking from cover momentarily as bullets and buckshot impacted the truck. Olivia seemed to have no fear of the danger, or simply didn't care, as she rushed over to the wounded girl and ripped her shirt away from the entrance wound.

She quickly inspected the injury, moving with the efficiency and calculated thinking that someone who had dealt with this type of situation previously would, feeling for an exit wound, checking the organs as best she could, and making sure that Alexis was attentive and that she hadn't vomited on herself. Once she was done she took the ripped fabric and wrapped it around the girl's abdomen, covering both the entrance and exit wounds before tying it off as tightly as possible without applying excessive pressure.

"Straight in an' out," Olivia muttered to Gwen. "I don't think there's internal bleeding, but if we don't get her somewhere she'll bleed out."

"How the fuck do you know this shit," Gwen questioned looking onward in awe.

"Later, we have to move her."

Grabbing the panicked girl by her legs, Gwen helped Olivia to pick her up off the ground, though not by much as the gunfire hadn't lightened at all, and while Lamar continued to return fire as best he could, it did little in the way of deterring their attackers. They swiftly moved her into the bed of the truck, where Olivia also propped herself up, trying to reassure the young woman that everything would be fine. Gwen quickly sprinted for the cab of the truck, but as bullets rained down around her, impacting the Bobcat and shattering the windshield, she found herself frozen in place, unable to move from their dwindling safety.

"Gwen," screamed Olivia, jerking her head downwards to avoid being hit. "You have to get in the truck God dammit! Drive!"

 _Fuck,_ she thought. _I can't fucking do it, I'm too scared. Alexis is gonna die and it's gonna be all my fault. I'm such a fucking coward._

Suddenly she felt a hand touch her back, and upon turning around she realized that it was Lamar. He had a look of genuine concern on his face, though whether it was for his own life or the lives of the women Gwen couldn't tell.

"Listen, jus' get in th' truck, dawg," he said reassuringly. "I got you covered, aight?"

For several moments Gwen struggled with the hesitation as every survival instinct screamed in her head to stay still, but she consciously knew that to not move would be the same as signing her own death warrant. Leaping up she quickly sprinted to the truck cab, bullets whizzing past her head as Lamar fired shot after shot in an attempt to keep their assailants down until Gwen could get the truck moving. It did little good, however, as they had superior firepower, as well as a high ground advantage. Swinging the door open just as more rounds impacted the paneling, Gwen dove onto the floor of the Bobcat, turning the keys that had been waiting in the ignition, throwing the vehicle into reverse and peeling out backwards at a breakneck pace. Everything happening around her seemed to be completely blocked out as she focused on the task at hand, not even realizing that Lamar had dove into the truck bed before they had fled.

…

The group had been driving for nearly five minutes in total silence, the ambush behind them and Gwen unsure where exactly they were heading, though for Alexis' sake she hoped that it was towards a hospital, as the young girl seemed to be getting progressively worse with each pothole and speedbump they haphazardly sped over. Olivia had managed to stop the bleeding, but every sudden movement risked the wound ripping and undoing all the work that had been put towards halting blood loss. Looking into the bed of the truck Gwen was unsure of what was going on, but it seemed that Alexis had passed out, and Lamar had become the target of Olivia's rage as he tried to calm down the woman now waving a revolver in his face.

"How many fucking times do you have to fuck up a deal before you learn," Olivia shouted at the young black man, his hands raised in a surrendering fashion. "Who the fuck even were those assholes, you stupid shit!?"

"Yo, chill the fuck out, girl," Lamar pleaded, though his choice of wording could have been better. "I think they was Vagos seein' as how they flyin' them yellow flags. Punk ass, bustas."

"Don't you tell me to calm the fuck down you piece of shit! You're the one who got my fucking cousin shot!"

"How th' hell was I supossa' know they tailed my ass?"

"You fucking look! For Christ's sake, they drive bright yellow lowriders, that's pretty hard to fucking miss!"

Olivia levelled her revolver at Lamar's head and cocked the hammer back, causing the man to push himself towards the rear of the truck bed, though at 50 miles per hour he hardly had anywhere to go.

"All the money," Olivia demanded.

"What," Lamar returned with a stunned look.

"You fucked this whole thing up, and you're gonna make up for it, or so help me God they'll be scrapping your lanky carcass off the pavement for the next two weeks."

"Man, you can't be serious? Bitch, I'll lose money on this shit I don't make somethin'."

"Not my problem, and I ain't your 'bitch' neither."

Lamar weighed his options whilst looking down the barrel of Olivia's gun, realizing that he had very little chance of getting out of his predicament with the cash, so instead he conceded the loss and hung his head in shame. Reaching into his pants pocket he produced the cash that Olivia had given him earlier, lamenting in his massive profit loss, and sliding it across the truck bed to where Alexis was sprawled out. Olivia quickly snatched the money, never taking an eye off the failed thug as she crammed the greenbacks into her brazier. The tension never relented, and likewise the gun never moved from its position, instead remaining trained somewhere between Lamar's eyes and his fast talking mouth. He wondered if she would actually let him go, or if she just didn't want to have to go through the trouble of riffling through a dead man's pockets.

"Stop the truck," Olivia demanded. Gwen was eager to meet her request, as driving aimlessly was getting them nowhere. "Now get the fuck out, you worthless prick."

Lamar had no reservations about leaving the company of the crazed woman, and swiftly hopped from the bed of the Bobcat onto the hot city pavement, skulking off away from the truck and towards and alley, but never taking an eye off the vehicle or the woman still pointing a gun at his back. Gwen sat anxiously, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead, her mind attempting to process everything that had occurred within the past thirty minutes, how a simple trade off went south so quickly, and why she was spared a life threatening injury while a girl no older than twenty now lay dying in the back of a truck that didn't belong to her.

Olivia opened the back window the remainder of the way, sliding Alexis into the back seat, then going round and pulling her the rest of the way through before joining Gwen in the front of the now bullet ridden Bobcat. She slammed the door shut and without a word slid forward, placing her elbows on the dash and her eyes into the palms of her hands, not muttering a word, but instead sitting in total silence, contemplating what had just happened, and trying to come up with a plan. Looking back up she turned her head to peer out the passenger window and said to Gwen:

"Drive to the Vinewood Hills, just up Milton Road."

"Don't you think we should be taking her to a hospital," questioned Gwen, nervously looking into the backseat where Alexis lay, fading back into and out of consciousness.

"Can't. Since she was shot they'll report it to the cops. There's a guy in the Hills that does some work for the Charter, stitches patched members back up when somethin' goes wrong, or if they get hurt and can't go to the regular ER."

Gwen put the Bobcat into gear and began their journey to the Vinewood Hills, hoping that the bullet holes now riddling the truck wouldn't attract unwanted attention, especially considering that they were packing copious amounts of illegal firearms open to anyone's view in the bed. Her hands hadn't yet stopped shaking, and she tried against herself to keep the truck from swerving across the road, but her hysteric state left much to be desired of her driving. Though she had been in the firefight only moments earlier, her mind still struggled to process everything that had happened, racing at the thought that for the second time she had to take another person's life. Albeit it had again occurred in the defense of another she had a difficult time trying to justify her appalling actions, tears streamed down her face at the sight of the man's face contorting in pain as she remembered the sharp report of the pistol, though she hardly noticed them as she gunned the truck through traffic.

"What's this guys name," she finally asked, wanting to break the tense silence that had filled the truck.

"Don't know," replied Olivia, not taking her gaze off the passing pedestrians. "Everyone just call 'im Doc."

"Nobody knows anything about 'im? Not a name, a history?"

"Johnny says he was a doctor back in Liberty City, went by John somethin' rather, I can't remember."

"What made 'im come all the way out to Los Santos?"

"I'm not really sure. Jonny mentioned once that he had been at work when some guy broke in and killed a patient. Said he couldn't stand the thought of it happening again, so he ran."

"And came out here to work on guys with rap sheets who kill almost daily?"

"Ain't life a bitch like that," Olivia said back, smiling across the truck at Gwen and placing a hand on hers. "Ya know you did good, right? If it hadn't been for you Lexi would prob'ly be dead right now."

Gwen stared ahead and straight out the window, not knowing how to respond, and wondering what, if anything, she could say to try and reassure Olivia that Alexis was going to be alright. The fact of the matter was that _she_ wasn't even sure if the poor girl would be okay, and given Olivia's affinity for being able to read people, she would more than likely see right through Gwen's vain attempt to ease her worried mind.

"It sure as hell doesn't feel like I did good," she finally said.

"You're both still alive," Olivia returned with a motherly tone. "It could've been a whole lot worse."

"I should've moved quicker. If I had then we wouldn't be in this situation. I choked"

"You killed a man, Gwen. You're allowed to freeze up, hesitate, it's not somethin' that people can just do."

"Then why does it come so easy for you?"

"I've been doing this a lifetime longer than you have, sweetie. Nobody gets to live the way we do without getting some blood on their hands. You should know that better than anyone right now."

"No, I do."

The remainder of the ride was silent and uneventful, Alexis has passed back out, and Gwen repeated what Olivia had told her time and again in her head all the way until they reached Vinewood Hills. The house which she was directed to was built into the side of a sheer cliff, overlooking the magnificent cityscape that was Los Santos, and making the modest houses they had passed on the drive up look like ghettos in comparison. Clearly this Doctor John had done well for himself working on the lower classes of citizenry that inhabited the city, perching himself high above the crime ridden, poverty-stricken denizens that yearned for the lush fineries he undoubtedly enjoyed daily. Olivia had little time to admire the view, though, hurriedly racing around the car and dragging Alexis' limp body from the backseat, propping her up against her and Gwen as they approached the house.

She slammed a fist against the door in a frenzy, hammering so loudly that passersby slowed their vehicles to see what the commotion was, looking on as two blood soaked women shouldered a limp body and frantically pawed at the heavy wood. Though it was only seconds before someone finally answered their incessant pounding, it felt like hours had ticked away as the hot San Andreas sun mercilessly beat down on them. As the door swung open an aging man dressed in a blue robe with shaved black hair answered the door, clearly furious that they had interrupted whatever it was he had been doing.

"What," he shouted. "I was just taking a-"

Before he could finish the sentence he saw that the two women who had been violently accosting his door were soaked from head to toe in blood, likely from the unconscious and clearly dying woman that they held between them. For a moment he looked back and forth at them, his mouth still agape as he studied the young woman they were holding, noticing the poorly wrapped cloth that was affixed to her waist.

"Jesus Christ," he finally muttered, looking over his shoulder, then out into the street to see if anyone was watching. "Get the hell in here. Now!"

…

Gwen wanted to see how Alexis was doing, help in any way she could, but not long after the surgery had begun the girl regained consciousness, and from that point on Olivia and the man she assumed to be Doc struggled to keep her gagged as she screamed in pain. She couldn't stand the screaming, and the sight of all the blood was starting to make her sick, so she chose to leave instead, for both her sake, and to get out of the way of the people who clearly knew what they were doing. After nearly two hours the intermittent screams finally seemed to stopped completely, giving way to the sound of birds basking in the late afternoon warmth just feet away from where Gwen sat on the outside deck. As the sun began to regress into the water of the Pacific Coast, the air cooled slightly, and the winds began to blow across the steep inclines that the Doctor's house had been built into. The view was surreal, as the slowly fading sun gave way to a spectacular display of vivid, multicolored vibrancy that cascaded its glow all across the skyline of Los Santos. Gwen hadn't seen anything so gorgeous since her and Patches had first come to LS.

 _That old softy was right,_ she thought to herself. _This place really is just filled with anger and hate. So much death. So much violence. Maybe I should've just stayed lost in the wilderness after all._

The door next to Gwen's chair slowly opened, and Olivia stepped out onto the deck covered in even more blood than she had originally gone in with, gripping a cigarette in one hand and a flip lighter in the other. She made her way across the deck and leaned against the railing, lighting her smoke and soaking in the breathtaking sight that lay before her, though it was safe to assume that the beautiful skyline wasn't what was on her mind. Gwen stood and walked up next to Olivia, who offered the young girl a cigarette without ever looking at her. Though she didn't smoke, Gwen felt somewhat obliged, and took a slim white and brown stick from the pack, putting the filter in her mouth and allowing Olivia to light the end for her. It took a few puffs before she finally got the hang of it, though even then the fumes still burned slightly as she breathed them in, but surprisingly enough the nicotine seemed to relax her.

"How's Alexis," Gwen asked. "Is she going to be alright?"

"Yeah," Olivia replied. "Doc says she'll be sore as hell for the next few months, but she'll make it. Lexi always was a little trooper."

"You really care for her, huh?"

"Of course I do, she's family. Wouldn't you?"

"If I had any family I suppose I would."

Olivia looked at Gwen and realized she had forgotten the girl couldn't remember anything about her previous life, so as far they knew her family was either dead or didn't care enough to come looking for her. If there _was_ anyone looking for her in San Andreas they would have surely turned something up by now, she had been living in LS for a little over three months, and it wasn't like she had been going out of her way to stay hidden.

"What about Ethan," Olivia questioned. "There's clearly somethin' there between you two."

"I don't know what we are." Gwen looked away and took a final drag off before flicking the butt of her smoke over the railing.

"You can't deny you have feelings for 'im, otherwise you wouldn't of called me cryin' like a baby that night."

"I do, but it's more complicated than that. I'm happy enough when I'm around him, but-"

"You want more than the club life," Olivia interrupted.

"Yeah."

"Honey, I've been there. When I hooked up with Johnny, after the shit I'd been through, I wanted the hell out, and he tried. Fact of it is, this lifestyle, the club, the brotherhood that they share, it just pulls 'em right back, no matter how far they run or how fast they ride. If you care for Ethan, you'll understand that."

Gwen contemplated what Olivia had just said, wondering if she was wrong for wanting to take Ethan away from the Club, away from his brothers, yet she also wondered how much she was going to have to sacrifice to satiate him, and whether or not all the violence and destruction was really worth it. She didn't have long to think before the silence was interrupted by the sound of paper being ruffled, and as she looked over Olivia presented with a handful of the money that she had re-procured from Lamar after their botched meeting. Gwen looked at the wad on cash confused before she sheepishly took it from Olivia's hand, rifling through and realizing that the majority of bills were hundreds.

"That's eight thousand dollars," Olivia told her. "It's all yours, so use it wisely."

"Why," questioned Gwen, unsure as to what she had done to earn the money.

"You earned it after today, and considering we got those guns for free, I'd say that so long as Johnny thinks we got a wicked discount, he won't miss the cash."

"Thanks!"

It had been a while since Gwen had any real spending cash of her own, and while she was appreciative of everything that Olivia had done for her, she figured that some of the hand-me-downs needed to be swapped out for something a little more up to date, and a little less blood stained. Plus, even with her purchases there would still be more than enough left over to pick something up that she had been considering buying for quite some time. Olivia smiled and walked back inside as Doc beckoned her to the door, no doubt that Alexis was either regaining consciousness again or he needed to address something. Gwen soon realized that with Alexis being laid up she'd more than likely be on bedside duty, but that was fine by her, as it would be a welcome change to the rough and tumble that she was becoming accustomed to.


	12. Et Tu Brute

**Chapter 12: Et Tu Brute**

The ride up to the mountains had been for the most part a fairly quiet journey, aside from the sound of metal clanking as Terry and Cricket loaded magazines, checked the actions on the rifles, and loaded the blocks of C4 into a large duffel bag. Ethan sat in the front passenger side, taking in the night as Skid rumbled the van along the dusty backroads that cut through the San Andreas countryside. In a different life mudding and backroading were activities that he often partook in with his friends in Kentucky, going out late at night, drinking way too much alcohol and driving aimlessly through the coal roads carved out by the semis that drove them regularly. That seemed like an eternity ago now, the simple pleasures of rural life replaced with the harsh realities of trying to survive in a world where almost everyone wanted him dead, and trying to fit back into a lifestyle that he left behind a long time before. Even as he sat there wondering what it would be like to finally return home, he questioned as to whether or not he actually wanted to go back, return to the mediocracy that was his life, the monotony that his college education entailed. None of it sounded particularly thrilling, but there was also another detail that made him play with the idea of staying in this new world, someone that he hadn't planned on meeting, but that he was glad he did.

Gwen and he had grown close within the past few months, and after their fight he knew that upon his return back to the clubhouse from the raid he would have to address what they actually were; a couple, or just two people looking for comfort in one another? The thought of leaving her behind pained him, though the same could be said for the thought of leaving his family to wonder where he had gone and what had become of him. Had they been looking for him? How many days had passed back in the real world, or had everything simply stopped moving forward when they entered the game? There were obvious questions that he had intended to find answers to, but without any way to contact Lester or find his friends the trail had once again gone dry. Attempts to call back the numbers that he had previously been contacted by only led to prerecorded messages of the numbers being no longer in use, no doubt Lester's doing, as he was an overly cautious man before the idea of interdimensional travelers.

 _I can't imagine that people just dropping out of the sky put Lester's mind at ease,_ Ethan thought to himself, a smirk cracking across his face as he pictured the portly man scurrying around and yelling at Michael about the repercussions his discovery entailed. _Maybe a little bit of movement and hard thinking will do 'im good though._

"The hell are you smiling about?" A voice from beside Ethan had posed the question. It was Skid, looking back and forth between the road and Ethan with a confused expression.

"Just a funny little friend," Ethan replied, leaning back into his seat.

"Thinkin' about your dick then, huh?"

Ethan rolled his eyes at the crude humor, though Skid saw fit to laugh at his own joke since no one else in the van did, no doubt due in part to the lack of comedy, but also because of the animosity that many held towards the boy. The kid seemed harmless enough, though he clearly wasn't as matured as many of the Lost members, and what still perplexed Ethan more than anything was how such a young member managed to earn his patch. Sure, Ethan had earned his in just a little over three months, but the circumstances seemed widely different, and Terry had been pushing for him to be allowed in. Most kids Skid's age were either just looking at becoming prospects or didn't even own a bike, and yet here he sat, fully patched and riding along to blow up a meth lab.

"So what's your story," Ethan questioned.

"My story?" Skid seemed confused, perhaps because he genuinely didn't understand the question, or maybe yet still it was because he wasn't accustomed to other members inquiring about him.

"Eighteen, patched member of The Lost with a fairly new and expensive bike. Somethin' 'bout that don't add up to me."

"I'm just that fuckin' good."

"Listen, kid. You can piss on my head all day, but don't tell me it's fuckin' raining."

"What?"

"It's an old sayin'," Terry shouted from the back. "It means you can act like a fuckhead all you want, but don't lie to 'im"

Skid sat in silence for a moment, looking straight ahead and wondering what he should say next, as it was clear that the man who posed the question had already known enough to be able to tell when he was lying, that or his bullshit detector was phenomenal. Running his hand across his head, and letting out a deep sigh, he finally sat upright and said:

"You know Quick's my Uncle-"

" _No shit?_ " Ethan was being as sarcastic as he could at this point, no doubt a jab back for the lie that Skid had tried to hawk earlier.

"Hey, you asked, I'm just tryin' to tell ya."

"No, you're right, you're right. Please, go on."

"All the men on my mom's side have been members of the Lost, and when I turned 17 Quick wanted me to start prospectin'."

"Seems a bit young, doesn't it?"

"Listen," Cricket interjected while lighting a cigar. "I once watched me 16 year old squad mate get 'is feckin' head blown off in Belfast by a Tanland sympathizer. Yer never too young fer shite like this. It gives a kid purpose, meaning."

"Anyway," Skid started again. "Long story short he sorta forced me to become a prospect, and a year later here I am a fully patched member.

"Except you were never actually a fuckin' prospect," growled Terry. "You had that patch in under a week. If it weren't fer Quick, you wouldn't even be in the God dammed club."

Skid was clearly growing more irritated the longer they discussed the topic, and as much as Ethan would have loved to have pushed his buttons just a little farther, he felt that if they didn't stop it may lead to altercations later on. It was pretty clear that Skid had no intentions of joining the Lost until his Uncle forced him to, and it wasn't hard for Ethan to relate. He had been forced into a career field that he had no interest in, and for the most part he hated the thought of the aftermath of his college career. The crippling debt, and unstable job market, and to top it off no matter how long he was there it never felt like he was learning enough to be successful once he left: if he left. Skid obviously had enough, however, no doubt from more than a year of bottling up the hatred towards the resentment he received from the other patched members, having to pretend like he wanted to be there, and struggling to fit in around a group of people that he had almost nothing in common with.

"Ya know what," the young man shouted. "Fuck you guys. It wasn't my fuckin' decision. You think I like being looked at like a piece of garbage, like I didn't earn this patch?"

"You didn't earn it, and that's the problem." Terry's eyes were remorseless, harboring no quarter for sympathy, a man truly devoted to the idea of honor and brotherhood. No one could blame him, though, especially after the majority of the Lost had been exterminated by Trevor in less than a couple hours. He and Johnny were the last two of a dying breed that had migrated from Liberty City, the last members of the original LC Charter.

"So you fucking hate _me_ then," Skid shot back. "Is that it? If so just fucking say it."

"I don't hate _you_ , peckerhead. I hate what you _represent_. An unearned patch. A phony. If anything I hate that shitty uncle of yours."

"Watch your mouth about my family-"

"You watch your fuckin' mouth around your superiors."

There was an air of violent tension inside the van so thick that Ethan could almost see it, but he chose not to say anything for fear of incurring Terry's wrath, or causing any more stress that could potentially threaten the mission. Everyone sat silent for near on ten minutes, the only sound being Cricket as he took in deep breaths of his thick Cuban cigar, then blew it back into the compact cargo hold. Terry looked straight at the ground, fidgeting with the handguard of his rifle and biting his lower lip, though whether it was nerves or anger had yet to be seen. Finally he spoke, saying:

"Listen, kid. I like you, and given the chance to let you re-earn your patch, I would, but that uncle of yours is a piece of shit, and you know it. Ever since he got patched in he's been nothin' but a drain, and why he was ever voted in as VP I'll never understand."

"I get it, but don't treat me like some sub-human shit because you hate Quick."

It seemed weird that Skid would call Quick by his name rather than "uncle", but perhaps that just showed to prove the animosity that Skid had towards his mother's brother, and just how little they actually had in common. He obviously didn't hate the man, otherwise he wouldn't have mouthed off in his defense, but something was blatantly wrong between the two.

Ethan's pocket began to light up, and the vibrations soon worked their way up to his crotch as he struggled to get the blinking plastic from his jeans. It was an unregistered number, so his guess was that it had to be Lester.

 _Thank God they made it out,_ he thought before answering the phone.

"Don't say a word, someone may be listening." It was Lester alright, as paranoid as ever. "Listen, those guys that jumped us worked for Martin Madrazo, and I'm almost positive they had something to do with Mark's kidnapping."

"Yeah, I fuckin' know, no thanks to you," whispered back Ethan in a harsh tone. "Do you know where he is?"

"No, I thought you should know, but clearly you already do. I don't suppose you know what I'm about to say next, do you?"

"Listen, I'm in the middle of something, so please hurry this up."

"Alright, alright. I've been tracing the outgoing calls from some of Mr. Madrazo's security team, and a vast majority have been going out to the same phone in a bar about a mile from your clubhouse."

"You think someone's been watchin' us?"

"Not just watching you, I'm almost positive there's a rat in your midst. I've gotta go, but we'll be in touch."

With that Lester ended the call, and though Ethan was left with more questions than answers, he knew that trying to call back would be pointless, as Lester had probably already burned the number.

"Who was that," Terry questioned while checking the C4 detonator.

"Just a guy I have lookin' for my friend, thinks he's being followed." Ethan hated to lie, but Terry couldn't know the truth, not yet anyway as it would no doubt interfere with the task ahead, and Ethan needed to get into that compound to try and find any info he could about Mark's whereabouts.

…

The remainder of the ride was spent is silence, all the way up until the men were about three miles out from the compound, and even then the chatter was kept to a minimum, only crucial details were talked about, and then at the two mile mark Skid brought the van to halt behind a patch of thick underbrush. Cricket, Terry and Ethan had been quick to disembark, not wanting to waste the precious little time that they had left, and if they remained stagnant for too long the chance of them being detected only increased. In just a little over 40 minutes the trio had made their way to the outskirts of the Pistolero's compound, but even with his thinner, more muscular physique, Ethan found it difficult at times to keep up as the lugged the nearly fifty pounds worth of gear through the mountainside. As the first building came into sight he realized that the hard work was just about to begin, and the thought of getting caught was far worse than the thought of having to trudge back down the mountain.

Terry hunkered down in a clearing, peering through a set of binoculars at the property laid out before them, which, much to their surprise, was shockingly under defended. Two men stood next to a large barn, no doubt where the lab itself was being stored, and just about twenty yards away was a smaller, aluminum building that had just recently been constructed. A lone Pistolero leaned against the thin metal, his heading yanking up every so often, indicating that he was tired and on the verge of falling asleep. At the western end of the yard sat a modest two story farmhouse, dilapidated and worn down by exposure to the elements and a lack of upkeep, but that didn't seem to stop the people inside from having a good time. Heavy metal music shook the windows, and the vibrations of the base could be felt for quite a ways, but not nearly as far as the scent of alcohol could be had. The smell of cheap beer and whiskey wafted about the air of the compound, culminating in an almost sickening musk.

Stowing his binoculars into the duffel bag, Terry motioned Cricket towards the man on by the small metal shed, then tapping Ethan on the shoulder he pointed his head in the direction of the other two by the barn, and took off. Ethan was right on Terry's heels as the snuck around the back of the barn, then splitting off they both took opposite sides as they closed in on their targets. Ethan could see Cricket waiting just out of sight in the bushes, biding his time until the other two bikers had taken care of their targets. Approaching the corner of the barn a shadow could be seen cast across the ground, rhythmically dancing to the flicker of the dying light that illuminated the front door. Peeking around the corner, Ethan slowly allowed slung his rifle crossed his back, and drew out a large combat knife that he had tucked away in a sheath across his chest. Across the way he saw Terry doing the same, then upon giving his cohort a slight nod, the two bolted from out of the shadows, grabbing their respective targets around the heads and yanking them upwards, exposing their throats. Ethan showed no hesitation as he drove the blade deep into the left side of the man's throat, jerking it through his tender flesh until it reached the other side. The sight was enough to sicken him, but he knew that a single misstep and they would quickly be found out, so he had to swallow the urge to gag as he drug the dying body behind a bush, the feel of warm blood on his arms sending a shiver down the young man's spine.

As Ethan tucked the body in the shadows of a large multiflora rose bush, a strange sound caught his attention; the sound of a struggle. Looking towards the metal shed where Cricket should have been, he instead saw the man hanging off the back of the target he was charged with killing. The Pistolero was fighting for an upper hand, but Cricket had his arm locked across the burly man's throat, trying to ensure that he couldn't shout for help, but he was slowly losing grip. With a hard thud the man slammed Cricket between his back and the metal shed, knocking the Irishman's head against the building, and sending him toppling towards the ground as he scrambled to get back up. As Ethan clamored for his carbine, the sling became entangled around his rigging, and before Cricket could regain his footing the large man, clasping at his burning throat, let loose a kick that caught Cricket right square in the jaw. As Ethan struggled to untangle his gun, the aggravated assailant brought to bear a large caliber pistol, similar to Ethan's .50, and pointed it directly at Cricket.

Before anyone had time to think they heard three slightly muffled shots being loosed from directly behind Ethan, and the man fell sideways without a word, landing hard on the ground where he lay pooling blood from his head and throat. Terry walked from beside Ethan, making his way across the yard and towards the individual he had shot to ensure that he was actually dead, but Cricket was already up and on it. Straddling the limp body, Cricket buried his knife into the man's chest and guts several times before Terry finally made his way over, grabbing his arm and pulling the enraged man to his feet. Cricket wiped the blood from his face and looked at Terry and Ethan, who now both stood by the mutilated corpse.

"Fuck that guy," Cricket exclaimed, but Terry was too busy looking towards the house to pay him any mind.

"I don't think anyone heard that." Terry observed the house for a moment more, then looked at Cricket. "Hide this guy's body, then plant the explosives."

As Cricket drug the corpse into the weeds, Terry patted Ethan on the back and began walking towards the barn, motioning him to follow. As they opened the doors the smell of burnt chemicals and sulfur bit at their noses, sending their sense into overdrive, and causing streams of tears to form in both men's eyes. Fighting through the smell, the two began to set up the charges around the cook sight, attaching them to propane tanks, by anything that looked liquid and flammable, and of course inside the large plastic tubs that held what had to be more than three hundred pounds of crystal. Terry picked up pieces of the glass like drug and mulled it over in his hand, losing himself in thought as Ethan finished hiding the remainder of the explosives around the building. Walking over to towards the tubs, Terry caught Ethan out of the corner of his eye, yet stood there with the glass in his hands, as though he found it difficult to put down.

"Ya know," said Terry. "Almost a year ago this shit nearly destroyed the Blaine County Charter."

"How so?" Ethan knew the story, but he couldn't let Terry know, and he would've felt worse if he had simply chose to ignore the man.

"Johnny wanted to start sellin' this shit, only sellin' turned into usin', and usin' turned into us getting' our asses torched by some meathead fuck from Sandy Shores."

"That how you got them scars?"

"Yeah," Terry returned, pitching the meth back into the bucket and closing the lid. "It's how Johnny got his too. God, we lost a lot of brothers that day. Johnny lost 'is way, ya know, but he came back, helped rebuild us, and when Cain decided he wanted anyone that supported the old ways dead, Johnny led an exodus."

"A real messiah, huh?"

"Of sorts. Come on, Cowboy, let's make sure that Irish prick didn't trip on his boots."

As the two made their out of the barn, and began to open the doors, they quickly came to the stark realization that they had been found out, as surrounding the barn was more than two dozen Pistoleros, and bound in front of them, strewn out on the ground beaten and bloodied, lay Skid and Cricket. Understanding that there was no way out, and not wanting to get killed before they could blow the meth lab, the two raised their hands in the air and submitted as several bikers came over and began to strip their gear off. Ethan couldn't believe that he had allowed them to walk into this situation, he had never even heard them encircle the building, but it was too late to think about what ifs, and self-pity wouldn't help the situation. Perhaps given a few more moments Ethan may have come up with a way to distract his captors while they tried to make a run, but a rifle butt to the back of the head quickly silenced any thought of escape, and as he slumped to the ground, the last thing Ethan saw before completely blacking out was someone picking him up and dragging him in the direction of the farmhouse.

…

When he finally came to Ethan found himself in a damp, stuffy concrete room, tied to a chair with a burlap sack thrown over his head, a fitting cliché if ever there was one. The back of his head throbbed with a great intensity, and even though he couldn't see inside the sack, he had no doubts that his left eye was either swollen partially closed, or blurry from the impact. For several grueling minutes he sat there in total silence, the only sound a maddening drip falling to the hard floor from a pipe behind him, and as best he could tell an incandescent bulb swung from a wire above his head. The silence was deafening, he was completely alone, and had no idea where he was, but then came a slight tapping, turning into a thud as it drew closer, then finally developing into a full blown stomp before stopping just a few yards from him. The sound of old tumblers clanked to life, and a heavy metal door could be heard swinging open just in front of him, letting only one person through before they closed it again.

The bag was swiftly yanked from atop Ethan's head, and as his eyes adjusted to the light he could barely make out the shape of a long haired man standing by a table just a few feet away from him with a Los Pistoleros patch adorning a leather jacket. Fiddling with something in his hands, the tall, lanky man seemed to pay Ethan no mind, but instead went about his business toying with whatever it was that he had.

"Who are you," Ethan finally muttered, stunned as the man laid a pistol down on the table.

"Ya know I'm insulted," replied the man. His voice was familiar to Ethan, almost disturbingly familiar. "You disappear for a _few_ months and suddenly you forget what your friends look like?"

 _Oh, God,_ thought Ethan. _It can't be. Surely to Christ it isn't really him?_

The long haired man stuck his hands on his pockets and spun on his heels to face Ethan, a long scar adorning his chin, and soul patch growing in rather poorly.

"Connor, is that you?"

"Winner, winner," Connor returned with a devilish smile. "Ain't you glad to see me?"

"Jesus Christ," shouted Ethan, his own smile drawing wide across his face. "I thought you were dead for sure! Man, we gotta get out of here. Ditch that jacket, you can come back to the clubhouse with me."

At that moment Ethan's heart sank back down into his stomach, and his mind raced as he saw the tiny white patch embroidered across Connor's left breast that read "President." He didn't want to accept it, but everything began to slowly piece itself together in his mind, the night they arrived, murdering Blaine County Charter members, the Dessert Wolf, Connor had done and was all of these things, and now the man that they had started a war against stood just inches from him. His onetime friend, now an enemy of circumstance.

"You," started Ethan. "You're the Dessert Wolf?"

"I suppose," returned Connor, leaning against the table. "I'm not really sure where that shit started at, but it just sort of stuck."

"Why?"

"The hell if I know, these local yokels started it, somethin' abou-"

"No, why the fuck have you been attacking the Lost? First you kill them, then you join them, and now not only do you lead the Blaine County Charter, but you changed the name? And what's this shit I've heard about you working for Madrazo? You know he fucking came after me?"

"Whoa, whoa," laughed Connor. "One question at a time, slick. I'll start from the beginning. Big lightning storm, black hole, blah, blah, blah, I'm sure you know that bit. Any who, I wake up in the middle of a fucking Lost clubhouse outside of Grapeseed in some shit trailer park. Only, I'm not alone, right? Smokin' hot little redhead laid up next to me, I figured whatever happened it happened to her too. So I drag her out of the trailer park, then, BAM! Next thing I know, these Lost assholes are shooting at me, so I double back, kill a few, blow up some trailers, it's whatever. I grab a bike, go to get the girl, and the bitch is _gone_. Can you believe it?

"If you were half as flattering around her as you usually are around women, then I can."

" _Anyway,_ I find her, track her for two days after some trucker picked her up, and finally get her alone in some park. I start talkin' to her, and wouldn't ya know, she can't remember a fuckin' thing. Nothin' at all, so of course she didn't believe me about the video game thing. Then, she points a fuckin' gun at me, and threatens to shoot me if I don't leave."

Ethan immediately realized that the woman Connor was referring to was Gwen, as she had told him the same story before when they first met, but he knew that there was no way he could tell him about her, by the sounds of it he really had it out for her.

"So what happened that landed you in charge of a Lost Charter?"

"Listen, I would really prefer it if you called us Pistoleros. We try not to associate with your kind."

"My _kind_? The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Failure prone methheads, my friend. Now where was I?... Oh, yeah! So anyway, I figure why not use my knowledge of the game to have a little fun? So I start killing bikers, taking their shit, building up a nice little stockpile of guns and money in the desert where no one can find me. Well one day I get a boot through my door, and wouldn't ya know it, it's that asshole Madrazo's personal security team. I didn't even get the chance to kill any, the fuckers caught me sleepin'. Guess it was for the best though, because it turns out Madrazo wanted to have a little sit down with me, one-on-one shit. Well he knows, right? About us, about everyone that came through, and he also knows that almost every government in the world is willin' to pay top dollar for our carcasses. So we make a deal. I hunt down people like us, and he not only lets me go, but pays me for it! Can you believe that shit?"

"Why the hell would he want you to track these people down when he's got a whole security team?"

"My thoughts exactly, but the way he figured it, if you're gonna hunt a wolf, you gotta think like a wold, right?"

"So you're at his beckon call?"

"Yes and no. Ya see, I've got plans. Mr. Madrazo is willing to pay whatever it takes to catch a dimension jumper since the payoff is _outrageously_ high, so I just ask for some cash, guns, whatever, and he obliges me. I then use that money to essentially buy myself an MC, arm them to the teeth, and bam!"

"You've got a private army…"

"Bingo!"

The plan had major flaws, but Ethan was stunned that Connor had managed to come up with such a scheme in so short an amount of time, and the fact that he was smart enough to start building his own private army was terrifying to say the least. The implications of a PMC force that could compare to Merryweather, but with an even more slightly unhinged leader, were problematic to say the least, though luckily it would take years to acquire enough resources to be on par with Merryweather. Even so, it was clear that Connor had become wildly unhinged, even more so than when they were in the real world, and if he was hunting others like themselves for Madrazo, it was fair to assume that he probably knew where Mark and Jack were.

"Was it you that kidnapped Mark, then?"

"I found him, yes, and I offered him a deal. The same deal I wanna offer you."

"Where is he?"

"Don't know. He turned me down, so Madrazo's men took 'im."

"Bullshit, you know where he is!"

Connor stood up from his position against the table, walking to the other side of the room and placing a hand on the concrete wall adjacent to Ethan, then he began to slowly shake his while staring at the floor.

"I really don't know, and I try not to imagine it. Supposedly he sold Mark off to the FIB, or maybe the IAA, I can't remember."

"You just let him get taken?"

"I had no choice!"

"You always had a choice!"

"No, I had a decision! Live or die! If I had tried to help Mark then I would've died too, for nothing!"

"At least you wouldn't have a coward that turmed his back on his friends!"

Connor quickly walked across the floor, pulling his arm back and curling his palm into a fist before letting it loose across Ethan's face, then again and again. After four or five blows he finally stopped his barrage, then breathing heavily he looked towards his captive who was now bleeding profusely from the nose, his left eye swollen completely shut. Ethan sputtered blood onto his shirt, coughing to catch his breath before spitting a red wad of fluid onto the floor at Connor's feet.

"Fuck you," Ethan muttered as loud as his injured jaw would allow.

"Jesus Christ," shouted Connor, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm offering you a way out of this, just fucking hear me out!"

"Yeah, what? You want me to come be your lackey? Your little bitch?"

"I just want you to come work for me. That's all. Help me hunt down these other pricks, and you'll never have to worry about Madrazo coming after you again. Plus, once I get my army together, no one will _ever_ be able to touch us."

"You're a fool, Connor."

The two remained silent for several moments, and Ethan awaited yet another assault against his face, but much to his surprise Connor stood there, running his fingers through his long hair, then he began laughing. The laughing soon turned into cackling, and before long he was sitting on the floor, arm propped against his leg as the riotous chuckling slowly turned into a mild snicker. Once he had finally got himself under control, Connor looked at Ethan with a wide, sharp grin that seemed to almost cut through the bound man.

"Ya know," Connor started again. "Mark said the same thing. I liked you, more than him anyway. You and Jack were always fun to be around, but Mark. Such a jackass, am I right?"

"You betrayed your friends, Connor." Ethan had anger in eyes, a burning hatred, and for Connor's sake he hoped that he didn't get out of his bonds, because he would have killed him right there.

"I was looking out for myself."

Connor stood from the floor and turned to the large metal door at the front of the room, opening the beast with a heavy metal screech and placing a hand on the shoulder of a man that had apparently been standing just outside.

"Put 'im with the others, then take 'em out and shoot them. All of 'em… in the head."

Connor turned back towards Ethan for only a moment, but said nothing, showing to his onetime friend that he at least felt some remorse, and in his own twisted way the killing was more out of mercy than spite. Madrazo wouldn't get the satisfaction of selling another of Connor's friends to be dissevered.

…

The muscular man that Connor had been talking to had drug Ethan for nearly fifteen minutes, out of the basement of the house that they had seen earlier, and far enough into the woods that he hadn't been able to see the compound for quite some time. As they entered a clearing from the dense brush Ethan could hear the sound of splashing water between the clanging of a metal chain that his captor wore around his waistline, and before long he could see a great lake laid out before them. At the far end was a dam, built wide and tall across two massive mountain ranges, but the lights that it shone off the water gave him no solace, as he was too far from it to call for help, and even if they heard him it would be too late by the time help arrived.

Heaving Ethan onto the ground from his shoulder the young man landed with a thud on his left side, sending a surge of pain through his skull and torso as he impacted on a now battered eye, and what was surely a broken nose. It took him a moment to roll onto his stomach, then bringing himself up on his knees he heard the sound of whimpering as three other were brought from out of the shady treeline. Terry, Cricket and Skid were all bound the same as Ethan, and though they had clearly been given a less than hospitable time during their captivity, they looked worlds better than their bruised and bloodied compatriot. As they were knocked to their knees Ethan soon realized that it was Skid who had been silently crying to himself, as tears rolled down his cheeks and ran into a split lip that still dribbled blood. Terry and Cricket had been given the brunt of the mistreatment, eyes blackened, and cuts gashed in their faces, but still they shed not a single tear, as any sense of fear and despair had long ago been beaten out of them.

"God damn, kid," Terry said while looking Ethan over, amazed that he was even still conscious after the beating he must have taken.

"It looks worse than it is, but at least know what it feels like to be Cricket after he sleeps with someone's wife." Ethan tried to jokingly reply, but his face was in an intense amount of pain, and it was everything he had just to muster that.

"Shut it," shouted the man that had drug Ethan through the woods. "This ain't social hour."

The four bound men had been lined up in a row, with Cricket and Terry beside one another, then Ethan and finally Skid, though with the slobbering and sniffling coming from the latter, Ethan wished he had been placed a little further over. Their captors dug no holes, but rather stood and joked for a short time, lighting smokes and sharing laughs before they finally decided to finish their job. It wasn't a long time they waited, but just enough for Ethan to see that Terry was slowly working his hands out their bonds, and given just a few more minutes he may have been able to slip free, but it was time they didn't have.

"Prospect," again shouted the large man. "You wanna earn that top rocker?"

'Yes, sir," answered back a thin, gangly looking boy. He was no older than nineteen, but in his hand he held a Hawk & Little 9mm pistol, a gun that seemed to be the preferred weapon of choice in San Andreas for everyone from bikers to tweakers.

"Good, then finish these shitbags and kick 'em into the lake."

Terry had vamped up his efforts to untie himself, now clearly fidgeting with the ropes around his wrists as he struggled against time, hoping that he wouldn't be too late, but knowing that their situation was dire. As the four men looked on the Pistolero prospect sauntered over to Skid and placed the barrel of his gun between the boy's eyes, hesitating to pull the trigger as he looked into the pleading face of the Lost member.

"Please," begged Skid, snot running down his chin. "Don't do this man, you don't have to do this. I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die!"

"Fuck you," screamed Cricket, nostrils flaring as his veins bulged from his neck. The man was furious. A bloodlust in his eyes. "Untie me you fuckin' twat! C'mon, fight me like feckin' man, you little bitch!"

The boy tried his best to ignore the heckling, but it was clearly starting to get to him as traces of doubt began to show in his face and sweat poured from the prospect's brow, but he was obligated, and if he backed out then he would more than likely be left floating in the lake with the rest of them. From the patched members, jeers and taunts began to be thrown at the prospect, mocking his cowardice, and questioning his loyalty to the club. Cricket shouted on in anger, only adding to the volatile situation, but Terry knew that if it bought them a few more moments then he had a better chance of breaking free.

"Do it, prospect," shouted a man from the crowd. "Or are you a pussy?"

"Don't," pleaded Skid, the barrel still pressing into his skull. "I don't wanna-"

Before Skid could finish his sentence the sharp crack of the gun echoed through the lake ravine and reported back from the opposite side, no doubt reaching the ears of any late night workers who had been laboring at the dam, and significantly shortening the time until the police arrived. Skid's body spasmed sharply and fell backwards, a craterous hole in the back of his head where the round had exited, leaving room for the remnants of his brain to dribble from. Ethan watched on in horror as the young man's unblinking eyes cast a postmortem gaze directly at him, tears still streaming out of them as the last of Skid's nervous system came to a screeching halt. The Pistoleros cheered on from behind, hooting and hollering as they celebrated, but their captives weren't so enthusiastic. Terry struggled on, his teeth now grinding against themselves as he fought back the urge to lunge forward screaming and tackling anyone in front of him, but Cricket wasn't so reserved. The man was foaming at the mouth, his face as red as any fire, and eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.

"You cunts," he slurred, jerking his arms and legs in an attempt to get loose. "When I get th' feck out of these, I swear I'll bite yer God dammed throats out!"

The prospect wasn't fazed by the threats as he solemnly walked over to Ethan, and as he placed the pistol to Ethan's temple, a single tear rolled down his face, landing on the ground in front of Ethan and mixing into the soil. Clearly it was his first kill, and Ethan felt a mixture of pity and hate as he looked back at the boy, pained that he was forced into doing something so despicable just to earn a patch, yet disgusted as he looked over to see Skid's lifeless corpse lying silent. Ethan could feel the pistol shaking against his head, and he knew that unless he thought quick either the boys panic would cause the gun to discharge, or he would hurry up and pull the trigger while the adrenaline was still rushing through him.

"First kill?" Ethan stared at the prospect with his one good eye, meeting his gaze as the boy bit his lip.

"Shut up," replied the kid.

"I remember mine. It was horrible."

"I said shut up!" His voice was shaky, clearly growing more disturbed with each passing second.

"I couldn't touch my gun for almost a week after that. Now look at me. I kill shits like you every day. You wanna know what the difference is between you an' me, though?"

"What?"

"I learned to live with it. You, though? _You're weak_. You'll _never_ forget his face, and it'll eat you up from the inside out until one day, poof… you're gone. Offed yourself in some motel room, maybe a gas station bathroom, who cares."

"Stop." The prospect was whimpering, just like Skid had right before he died. "Please, stop."

"Ya know, my friend asked you the same thing. Look where it got him… I was wrong, you ain't gonna kill yourself. You don't have the balls, you worthless little cu-"

Suddenly, with all eyes on Ethan, Terry lurched forward, broadsiding the prospect and knocking him to the ground. With almost no struggle, he wrestled the pistol away from the kid, cracking him hard across the face with the magazine well, and knocking the hysterical boy out cold. The four other Pistoleros were still stunned, finally having the sense to draw their weapons as Terry turned on them, but it was too late, and they were forced to run for cover as the murderous, monster of a man began to let into them with a salvo of shots from the newly acquired weapon. Cricket and Ethan watched on in amazement as Terry singlehandedly seemed to annihilate everything that stood against him, emptying his magazine into the first two bikers before tackling a third to the ground and proceeding to stab him to death with his own knife. The fourth man, the one that had carried Ethan from his cell, ran for the trees, but before he fled into the shadows he turned back, eying up Ethan and levelling a pistol at the young man's head.

There wasn't even time to think before the shot rang out, and like a flash the man was gone, disappeared into the woods and more than likely already on his way back to the compound to alert everyone and rally a search party. Terry had no time to pursue, however, as he rushed over to where Ethan lay, sprawled out across the ground and bleeding profusely from a serious head wound. The poor man gasped for air as he faded in and out of consciousness, staring at Terry before momentarily blacking out. As his vision returned he now saw both Terry and Cricket, who were standing over him, trying to lift him without knocking his head around too much, but it didn't matter, as Ethan fell back into unconsciousness. Coming back to yet again, he realized that his two friends were carrying him through the woods by his arms and legs, sweating profusely as their bodies struggled under not only the weight of Ethan, but the injuries that they had endured at the hands of Connor's men.

He remained cognitive for some time, long enough to hear the sound of passing cars not far off in the distance, and from behind them the sound of dogs aggressively barking in pursuit, no doubt on the hunt for the three escapees. Ethan's eyes were growing heavy, and began to slowly close, his mind starting to fade back out, but not before he heard the sound of vehicles speeding by, then a loud screeching followed by his head being laid on something softer than the dirt he had once been in.

 **Hey there, I hope everyone's enjoying the story thus far. Just wanted to give a heads up in case some folks hadn't noticed, I recently changed the rating from Teen to Mature. I want to start really getting more detailed and immersed in the GTA world, which means that I'm going to start delving into some sensitive topics, but I want to assure you that this isn't going to turn into some smutty romance fic. As far as that is concerned the only sex scenes that will be included will be for the continuation of the story, and will be kept to a tasteful minimum as I understand the awkwardness of reading a poorly constructed sexual fantasy. In regards to the "sensitive" material, I am of course referring to rape, hardcore drug use, and detailed descriptions of violence. I will do my best to give forewarning about these chapters without ruining the story.**

 **So to round this out, thanks for your continued support, the reviews have been much appreciated, and if you like story hit that favorite and follow button, and be sure to tell a friend who would enjoy it. Rock on viewers. Oh, and be on the lookout for Patches to make a potential return soon!**


	13. SSDD

**Chapter 13: S.S.D.D.**

Carjacking and muggings were those kinds of stories that you only heard about in the inner city, where gang violence and drug trafficking were in such abundance that these types of things not only happened on a daily basis, but had become a societal norm; an everyday danger that simply had to be factored into one's daily routine. In the more rural regions of America, and even in many of the suburban neighborhoods, these were wild oddities that could easily be tracked down within a day or two, usually resulting in the arrest of a local nuisance that had finally went too far. But to be held up in the middle of an interstate, as cars flew by, seemingly ignoring the world around them, was unheard of to say the least. It's was for that reason nobody paid any mind to the world weary and wayward transients that they passed on the freeways and bypasses every day. Though after such an experience it would be understandable as to why an individual may from that moment on be hesitant to stop and assist someone that they thought could use a hand.

This was the case for Kyra Greene, as she stood watching her Bravado Buffalo S speeding down the Palomino Freeway, two badly beaten bikers behind the wheel, and a third now bleeding from a profuse head wound all over her newly reupholstered leather interior. She wasn't surprised that they had tried to take her vehicle, as upon seeing them it was quite obvious that they were desperate and willing to do whatever it took to get a car. What did surprise her was the speed with which they moved, as even though the man who actually did the carjacking was battered and had blood speckled across his white shirt, he moved with the calculating efficiency that one may expect from a trained professional. From the time she had been pried from the driver's seat to the moment they took off down the Freeway was easily under thirty seconds, impressive even by Ballas' standards. But Kyra was in no mood to admire their work, as she herself was now left in a precarious situation, and quickly had to reacquire her vehicle before she could continue on her way.

Without even so much as a second thought, the woman stepped out into the path of oncoming traffic, boldly standing in the middle of two lanes of screaming death while motorists sped by, until one unlucky soul jumped on his brakes and slid his car to a screeching stop. It was an older Olbey Tailgater, but Kyra wasn't looking for speed, just something that would get her moving and out of the cold rain, however good it may have felt. In contrast to Kyra's calm demeanor the driver was visibly shaken, with his fear quickly turning into a blind rage as he threw the car door open and stomped out into the middle of now backed up traffic.

"What the fuck, you dumb bitch," he shouted from behind his door, but his verbal lashing fell on deaf ears, as Kyra was already making her way towards the car. Grabbing the man by his arm she twisted it behind his back until a slight crack was heard, then with a stern push slammed his head hard off the door frame, sending him toppling to the ground unconscious.

Quickly throwing the car into drive and cutting across the median, Kyra was headed back towards Los Santos, costing her precious minutes as the time until her meeting ticked away, but she couldn't show up without the package that was in her car's backseat. Grabbing a jacket that had been lying in the passenger seat she wiped the water from her face and proceeded to adjust the rearview mirror until she could she herself in it. Deep hazel eyes surrounded by opulent ebony skin stared back at her, a stern expression cast across her brow as she gunned the Tailgater down the road, pushing the sedan to its limits.

Getting out an iFruit phone the young woman pulled up the Trackify app, as she had her car low jacked with a tracking chip for just such an occasion, and luckily for her the vehicle wasn't too far off. The rain seemed to only intensify as the white line flew by out the window, and Kyra was left only with her thoughts as the minutes ticked by in her pursuit, though she more often than not hated to be left alone with nothing to think about, as her mind always wandered back to that terrible night that everything changed. She reminisced about a life not even half lived, opportunities left behind, and worst of all she was forced to deal with her own humanity and the things she'd done since arriving in Los Santos. Luckily she wouldn't have to worry for long, as he phone began to jingle and light up with the name Matt in bold letters printed across the screen.

"Yeah," she answered, he voice harsh and seasoned.

"Why is it that I'm looking at your car on my Trackify app right now, and it's headed back towards Los Santos?" The man, Matt, sounded less than pleased.

"I'm not in it, that's why."

"What?"

"Long story, but I'm just a few minutes from gettin' it back, don't worry."

"For your sake I hope so, because if any harm befalls that package, then the Aztecas will not be nearly as forgiving as I would be. Get it back, and then get your ass to Sandy Shores."

With a press of the button the call had ended, and Kyra pitched her phone into the cup holder, letting out an irritated sigh as she kept one eye on the tracker, her target cutting a sharp right off Palomino and onto the Del Perro Freeway. They had begun moving even quicker, no doubt pushing her poor Buffalo to its limits as they tore down the highway with Kyra now in sight, and less than pleased with how they were handling her car. She remained behind by nearly a quarter mile, not concerned with getting the vehicle back so much as she was with what resided within it. Unfortunately, she had no weapons, as they were tucked under the seat of her now fleeing car, so attempting to stop the bikers would have been useless.

Within a few minutes of entering the Del Perro, the car flew up an off ramp and was headed North again, directly towards Vinewood before cutting a hard left and shooting east.

 _Do they know I'm tailin' em,_ Kyra wondered. _These guys are all over the fuckin' road._

Kyra swerved the Tailgater through traffic, amazed that people were already up and heading out to work at four in the morning, or perhaps they had nothing better to do and were just out wasting gas and taking up space, it was Vinewood after all. Before long they were headed north again, up Milton Road and into the Vinewood Hills where Kyra hoped that they would soon stop her stolen vehicle, as she was becoming more and more pressed for time as the chase continued. As much as she would have loved to deal with the men as soon as they stopped, she didn't want to risk having an APB out on her vehicle right before meeting with some of the most wanted in one of Blaine County's most notorious drug running cartels.

The car had slowed to a stop somewhere in the housing developments within the Vinewood Hills, no doubt the men had reached their destination, and all Kyra need do now is park far enough to not draw attention, then move in and take her car back. After ditching the stolen Tailgater in some poor sods driveway, Kyra quickly made her way down the street to a house that had been built into the side of a huge cliff face, overlooking the city with an entirely unobstructed view. Parked out front was her car, doors swung wide open and still running as she saw that a trail of blood ran from the backseat all the way to the door of the house, where it pooled slightly around the porch and was smeared all around the handle. From inside she could hear the sound of shuffling and shouting, ceramic smashing as decorations were swiped from what was assumed to be a table, and the sound of said table being scooted across the floor while someone ran up and down a flight of wooden stairs. While she _was_ pressed for time, curiosity as usual had taken hold of the young woman, and grabbing her .32 caliber Vintage Pistol from under her seat she checked for the package, then upon seeing it was still there began working her away around the side of the house to see if she could get a better view of what was going on.

Working her way onto the back deck, Kyra slid over to a large, plate glass window, peering inside and attempting to stay out of view as best she could. Running throughout the house was man in a white doctor's coat with blue latex gloves and a cloth facemask, directing the other two men that had stolen Kyra's car to pull over the table on which their friend was sprawled out. Getting a better look at the man, Kyra realized that he seemed far worse off than she had originally assumed, no doubt because the last time she had seen him she was being forcefully drug from her car and tossed across a highway. He had obviously been shot, and from what was visible the bullet had entered his left eye socket and blown out the side of his head, completely obliterating the eye and part of his temple. The outlook was grim, and the anger she had for the carjackers subsided upon seeing their friend in such a disheveled, grave condition. Through a partially opened window the sound of shouting echoed throughout the valley below, but was soon silenced as a frail voice began to sputter out what few words the it could manage.

"Gotta… get… Gwen…" The man's friends pleaded with him to stop speaking as the man in white injected what looked to be a needle of anesthesia, but he continued rambling. "Mark… Jack… there's a… rat… Connor and Madrazo… back to Pittsburgh."

Kyra's heart nearly skipped a beat when she heard that last word: _Pittsburgh._ No one in Los Santos had ever mentioned a city by the name of Pittsburgh before, and as far as she knew it didn't exist, or at least not in this world. Ever since that fateful night the only ones that she had come to know that were from the real world were her, Matt and a handful of others, but one word denoted nothing. For all she knew it could have simply been a fluke, a dying man's desultory ramblings uttered as he slipped away, but it seemed too specific to just be random, as he was clearly naming off people he knew, trying to communicate, so it didn't make sense that he would just conjure up a word.

Looking at her watch it was nearly five in the morning, and it would take her at least an hour to get to the meeting location, that is if Matt didn't have her killed for nearly losing the car. Sneaking off back towards her vehicle she could her the muffled sound of medical equipment being clanked off a metallic tray, no question whatever operation they were about to perform was getting underway, and given the lack of proper equipment there was no way Kyra was hanging around to hear the screams. Her interest had been peeked, however, and as she climbed into her Buffalo she took a photo on her phone of the house, not wanting to forget where this mystery man was. If he survived that is.

…

As she approached the exit for Sandy Shores the only thing on Kyra's mind was the man that she had seen laid up back in that mansion, and whether or not he was from the GTA universe, or if he had been pulled in like her and Matthew. The thought that someone else had come through was both exciting and terrifying, as it meant that there was the potential for even more people to have come through, but at the same time it also meant that there was more of a chance for said individuals to be hostile. She had only ever met three others, and two of them were dead by her own hand, though it wasn't something that she bragged about, and she would never admit it but their faces often plagued her dreams at night. She could pull the trigger on anyone, but for some reason those two had been more difficult than the rest, probably because she shared a commonality with them, a bond of being from the same place, generally speaking. Her thoughts were soon interrupted as her smart phone buzzed to life, Matt calling again; not like anyone else ever did.

"I'm glad to see that you're nearly there," he stated in a rather dully and monotone. "Your contacts are getting antsy."

"Jesus," Kyra snapped back. "You tell Andrés that it won't kill his men to wait a few extra minutes."

"Tell him yourself. He's at the airstrip."

A high pitched ding signaled the end of the call, and as Kyra looked at her phone with a furious expression she threw it into the passenger seat, sending it rebounding hard against the door and tumbling onto the floor where it rolled under the seat. Matt had been becoming more unbearable as of late, but he was her friend, and as much as she hated to bite her tongue it would do her no favors getting on her bosses bad side. She was also furious that the carjacking had made her late to the meeting, if she had known that Andrés would be there then she wouldn't have wasted time eaves dropping back at the house. It was in the past now, and with the airfield in sight she could only hope that her contacts hadn't left by the time she got there.

Upon pulling in she saw that the Aztecas were still there, parked by the hanger and looking ridiculous as ever with their baggy clothing and bandanas wrapped around their faces. It was laughable to say the least, as Kyra had never taken the "intimidation" style when choosing her clothing, instead taking a more tactical approach and choosing objective appropriate apparel. Even now she was dressed for the occasion, the belt around her olive drab cargo pants holstering five extra magazines, a plain white tank top allowing her mobility and heat relief in the scorching desert, and a pair of shooters glasses blocking any annoying UV rays. Stopping just yards away from the Azteca's van she threw her silky black hair into a ponytail and reached under her seat to grab the package wrapped in butcher's paper.

A large Hispanic man with a bald head approached Kyra's car, stopping near the hood and staring at her through a pair of thick sunglasses as she swung her door open and climbed out, returning his gaze with a smile.

"Andrés," she remarked. "If I had known you were gonna be here I would've come sooner."

"Cut the shit, _negrito_." Andrés spoke in a thick Mexican accent, and was clearly none too pleased with Kyra's timing. "You're lucky we're here at all. I should've left twenty minutes ago.

"Keep talkin' like that and one day someone's goin' cut that tongue of yours out."

"Is that a threat, _perra_?"

"No, just an observation. Here's the shit."

Tossing Andrés the small brown package he deftly swiped it from the air and began to unwrap it, revealing a brick of finely ground, starch white powder wrapped in cellophane and tied off with green packing tape. Andrés motioned for one of his men to come over, taking out a knife and stabbing it into the package, then handing it off to the man, who proceeded to drag his tongue across the blade. The man shook his head and rolled his lips back, staggering at the potency of the product, then let out a sharp yelp as he jumped up and down in place, indicating that whatever was in the cellophane was exceptionally potent.

"Tha's good shit, Boss," said the man, snorting and then shaking his head.

"Alright," Andrés returned, throwing a thumb over his shoulder and sending his compatriot back to where he had been. "I'm thinkin' 20K a pound?"

"Pfft," mocked Kyra. "20K? Do I look stupid to you? 50K, and not a penny less."

"At 50K I wouldn't make enough of a profit to justify buying from _caga_ like you."

"At two hundred a "G" you'd be makin' almost forty thousand in profit, _gilipollas."_

Andrés paused for a moment to think, or at least look like he was thinking, as he knew the woman was right. It was a buyer's market, as most of the addicts in Blaine County would easily pay two hundred dollars a pop to get their hands on high grade heroin, and even if it didn't sell he could still send it to his contacts in LS or Las Venturas. Kyra's facial expression clearly showed that she knew she had him, any further negotiation would be pointless, but Andrés wasn't known for giving up without a fight. The two stood in silence for several more moments before Andrés finally said:

"40K a pound for the first five shipments, then fifty for every pound after that."

"35K a pound for the first _four_ shipments, and then fifty-five for every pound after that."

"You drive a hard bargain, _chica_ , but I accept."

With a handshake the two concluded their arrangement and exchanged their equal shares for the terms agreed upon, Kyra handing over the pound of dope, and Andrés giving her several stacks of cash equaling out to thirty-five thousand dollars. Kyra had always viewed Andrés with some discontent, but he was an honest enough guy, and their previous dealings had always ended mutually beneficial for both parties. This case was no different, as the Aztecas could finally break into the heroin trade in Blaine County, and with a sole proprietor agreement that Matt had worked out with them, he wouldn't have to worry about the Aztecas turning elsewhere for their product. Kyra tossed the money into her car and grabbed her pack of cigarettes, turning back to Andrés and offering him a Redwood, which he unsurprisingly accepted. As the two leaned against the Buffalo, puffing on their respective smokes, they began to talk about recent events as the other Aztecas prepared to leave.

"So," started Kyra. "Pretty ballsy to be dealin' in Blaine County again after the last time, ain't it?"

"What," Andrés replied. "You mean th' Phillips incident. That _cabron_ will get what's comin' to him, just as soon as we can find 'im"

" _Find_ him? You mean he's missin'?"

"For about five weeks now. You hadn't heard?"

"Shit, I try to stay away from Blaine County. Buncha inbred hillbillies runnin' around shootin' at anything that looks darker than themselves. No thank you."

"Listen, tell Matt that I'll be in touch. With Trevor gone there's been a lotta _culos_ makin' moves. We may need to up our gun shipments."

"I'll pass it along. Stay safe."

With that Andrés headed over to the black SUV that his entourage were waiting in, climbing into the passenger seat and nodding his head at Kyra as they pulled out of the airstrip and onto the road heading west. Not long after, though, the sound of several motorcycles could be heard coming from the opposite direction, five of them in total racing down the blacktop until they reached the entrance to the airfield. They pulled in and Kyra immediately stuck her hands in her back pockets, allowing her to get closer to her firearm while still looking as though she didn't pose a threat. The lead bike pulled up several feet from Kyra's Buffalo and shut off as the rider pulled a pair of sunglasses from his face and clipped them to his shirt collar, revealing a wicked scar that ran from the top right of his forehead clear down to the left side of his chin. He swung his leg off the Hexer and sauntered over to the dark skinned woman that stood before him, looking her up and down before placing his hands on his hips.

"You Kyra Greene," he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe," she replied. "That all depends on who's askin'."

"A might bit prettier than I thought you'd be."

"Wish I could say the same."

"Ohh, I like 'em feisty."

"Are you here for a reason, or can I leave now? I'm a very busy woman."

It was becoming more obvious by the minute that the men weren't there to do business, as those still on bikes were putting their hands to their hips, or reaching into their vests to grab their weapons. The large man in front of her was also acting strange, or at least stranger than the situation warranted, as he began shifting on his feet, and a large smile crossed his face as he looked back towards his mounted compatriots. Kyra knew that she was outgunned, and if she acted too soon she would likely just be shot down before she could kill more than one of them, so she chose to bide her time, waiting for an opening.

"Listen," the man finally said. "I was told to come get you and bring ya to the club. Our President wants to have a little chat with ya, so let's make this easy on everybody, and why don't you go get on the back of that bike there and let me take ya t' go see 'im."

"Nah," returned Kyra. "Not really interested in talkin' to 'im."

"Well… that's disappointin'."

Without even so much as a subtle tell, the man wildly swung at Kyra, catching her in the jaw and sending her toppling to the ground where she rolled in the dirt until she was on her back, but the man was already bearing down on her. He grabbed her by the wrists and pinned them under his tremendous weight, his forearm muscles bulging as he got down in the young woman's face, so close she could taste his whiskey latent breath. Almost instinctively she loosed a stiff knee to the groin, sending the man to the ground in pain as he rolled onto his side and off of her. Crawling backwards and towards the opposite side of her car Kyra reached into the back of her pants and unholstered her pistol, bringing it to bare and pumping three rounds into one of the bikers that had jumped off his ride and was running towards her. Not even seconds after he hit the ground, sever gunshots pooped off from the others, the rounds impacting the dirt on either side of Kyra as she rolled into safety behind her car.

The shots slammed into the Buffalo and shattered its side windows, sending glass rolling across the ground as Kyra returned fire, knocking one man off his bike while the other two continued to unload into the white car, shouting racial slurs as they climbed off their rides. As she loaded a fresh mag the man that she had kneed before stood up and pulled a large revolver from his vest, firing two heavy rounds into the hood and windshield before Kyra popped from her cover and shot him several times in the chest, the last round piercing through his throat and passing out the back. Blood spurted across the red clay dirt, pooling around the dying man as he lay on the ground clasping at his throat and choking on air, his lungs quickly filling with fluid. Upon seeing their leader gunned down the last two bikers hopped back onto their motorcycles and sped off as Kyra fired a few shots before they jumped on the throttle and tore off down the road and out of sight.

Looking back at her car the vehicle had been riddled with bullets, holes punctured the majority of the driver's side, and a mixture of different fluid leaked onto the ground from where the engine had been run through by the heavy revolver. There was no way she was driving back to Los Santos, the car was in shambles, and she wasn't entirely positive how to actually ride a motorcycle. It always looked so easy, but upon trying it previously she found that many of the bikes were much heavier than their appearance led her to believe, and she was never quite able to master the manual clutch. With a sigh Kyra walked back towards her bullet sponge of a vehicle, sitting herself on the hood and looking at the scene laid out before her.

The biker closest to her, the one that had pinned her to the ground, had bled out, or at least passed out form the blood loss, and now lay in the hot dirt, covered in a muddy mixture of snot and crimson. Adorning his back was a three piece patch, the top and bottom rockers reading " _Los Pistoleros, Blaine County,_ " and in the middle was the image of a skeleton holding two revolvers across its chest. She didn't know much about Blaine County, as Kyra made it a point to avoid the desolate, poverty stricken landscape, but she tried to make it a priority to keep up on most gang activities throughout the Blaine and Los Santos County regions, as they would either eventually become allies, or be wiped from the face of the earth. The Pistoleros had been making quite an infamous name for themselves as of late, running drugs, guns and prostituting women more aggressively than the Lost ever had in the region, but if the rumors were true and Martin Madrazo was backing them then it came as no surprise how efficient and well off they were.

 _What do these assholes want with me,_ she thought for a moment. _I guess I could've left one alive to ask._

If a biker gang was gunning for her then it meant Kyra had to have pissed them off somehow, but with her affinity for staying in LS it wasn't clear how she could've riled them so much that they make it a point to track her down. It wasn't important, what was important was getting out of the area before the Blaine County Sherriff's Department reared their heads, though they tended to be slow on the scene for gang related shootings, so she had time. Pulling her iFruit phone from under the car seat, the young woman punched in several numbers and put it to her ear as it began to ring. From the other end a voice answered, it was Matt.

"What?" He sounded even more agitated than the last time they had talked.

"Nice to hear you too," Kyra returned sarcastically, none too pleased with the third degree she had been receiving.

"Listen, I'm very busy right now. What do you need?"

"Had an incident after the meeting, so I'm gonna need a ride back to the tower."

"An incident? Kyra so help me God if you've done anything to convolute the already precarious partnership we have with the Aztecas, you will not be able to run far enough to avoid the hellstorm that I will bring down on you."

"Calm down! The deal went off without a hitch, jackass. I was attacked after Andrés left by some bikers. Just send a helicopter you prick.'

With a firm thumb Kyra pressed down the red button on her screen and ended the call, furious at what Matthew had said to her, at the way that he had been treating her as of late, like she was just some expendable grunt. She had been protecting him ever since they arrived in San Andreas, and when he started enterprising and building relationships with the local street gangs she was the emissary he sent, always putting herself in danger for the betterment of the company, for an ungrateful friend. Maybe this was his true demeanor, maybe she had been right in her assumptions back when she first met him, but then it again with the Aztecas breathing down his neck about expanding operations, maybe the stress was just getting to him. She pondered this for several minutes before lighting up a cigarette and leaning against her car, then taking out her pistol she worked over the ornate slide with gentle hands, thinking back to the injured biker she had seen earlier. When they were throwing him in her car she thought she'd heard them say the name Ethan, but there was no way to be sure.

…

Kyra always loved riding in the helicopter, it had been a childhood fantasy of hers for quite some time, and though she was now expected to be a cold, calculating killer it still made her a little giddy every time she heard the whir of the blades. Looking out the window at the Los Santos cityscape she thought back to when her and Matthew first arrived in LS, all the nights spent sleeping in the back of dilapidated Emperor, the shootouts from botched drug deals with small time criminals. Things had certainly changed for the two, and luckily it was for the better, as Kyra wasn't sure how many more nights she could put up with listening to Matt's terrible snoring. She remembered the day Matt bought their first legitimate business, got his foot in the stock market, and then from there he made a killing in just a matter of months, playing the system so well that before they knew it he was the owner/operator of his own investing firm, and he and Kyra were living in the lap of luxury. With all the money that he made from the firm, however, Kyra wondered what his end game was in selling to lowlife street gangs like the Aztecas. Sure it was big time money, but he was already raking in hundreds of thousands of dollars daily, and cartels weren't people you wanted to get entangled with you ever intended to stop buying or selling.

She wasn't the one calling the shots, though, just going where she was told and pulling the trigger of whomever Matthew told her to, it wasn't the most honest way to make a living, but it helped to pay for their new lifestyle, and keep Kyra's mind off her life before everything fell apart. Off in the distance the former LS Quick building, renamed Esposito Investments LLC., was coming into view, and atop the building Matthew was already waiting, his slim fitting business attire clinging fast to his modest frame, and a pair of aviator sunglasses shining bright in the midday sun. Though as of late he seemed to always have a stoic expression plastered to his face, Kyra remembered a time when he would laugh, smile and even cry, but that all seemed to fade when the money started coming in.

When the SuperVolito finally touched down, and the automatic doors slid open, Matthew offered a hand to Kyra as she hopped from the great metal beast, a large aluminum case in her left hand.

"You couldn't leave that in the car," he asked, shouting over the sound of the engine in a vaguely Italian accent.

"Nope," Kyra replied. "It goes where I go."

"Nevertheless, we need to get to my office. There's a lot to discuss."

Making their way over to a waiting elevator, the two quickly began descending downwards two floors, where the doors opened to reveal a single room that was decorated in ornate relics and ancient treasures. The floors were a laminate mahogany, polished to a sheen so that everything in the room seemed to reflect off it, even the large oak desk that sat at the far end of the room, overlooking the city of Los Santos. Matthew strutted across the room, adjusting his jacket and planting himself firmly in the large chair on the side of the desk closest to the windows where he often sat and contemplated his financial moves. Kyra placed her case at the foot of the table, removing her sunglasses and taking a seat in a much less ostentatious chair parallel to Matt's.

"Andrés called, said that that you two struck a deal."

"That we did. I told 'im thirty-five thousand per pound for the first four shipments, and every shipment after that would be fifty-five thousand."

"That's my girl! Always looking towards the future!"

"You said there was somethin' to discuss?"

"Yes, there is. Andrés also mentioned wanting to increase his weapons shipment, no doubt they're gearing up for war with the Salvadorans. Until I can figure out a way to discreetly move these larger purchases, I'm going to need you to move them in increments, small vans."

"Shouldn't be a problem. After all grunt work is what I'm best at."

"Kyra, you know I ask this as a favor, not an order. You're the only one I can trust with this work."

He sounded sincere, and it was true that most people couldn't be trusted to move such high volumes of weapons, but the manner in which he said it made Kyra feel as though she was just another one of his lackeys, a paycheck rather than a friend. Running a business took a calculating mind, though, and getting too close to anyone, even a friend, was dangerous, especially when dealing with drug traffickers and gun runners. The young woman forced a halfhearted smile and looked at her friend turned employer, leaning back in her chair and saying:

"I know. Don't worry, I'll handle it."

"Beautiful," he replied in an ecstatic manner, though whether his gratuity was sincere or feigned could be debated. "Where would I be without you!?"

"Prob'ly dead in a gutter."

"Ah, there is truth in that. We've come a long way from those days, though. So, why don't you tell me why exactly your car looked like imported Swiss cheese?"

Kyra's semi-forced smile quickly faded, and she stared to the far corner of the room, recalling her run in with the bikers and rubbing at her now swollen jaw where one of them had hit her. They seemed to be after her for a reason, but whatever it was she had never managed to ascertain, and since dead men can't speak she would more than likely never know until more came for her. Matthew saw the look of concern in her eyes, and he in turn leaned back into his chair, pulling at his neatly trimmed goatee.

"These bikers came after me," she started. "They were with some club called the Pistoleros, said their President wanted to 'have a little chat with me.'"

"I see," returned Matthew in a somber tone. "Did they say why?"

"No, they just jumped me when I said I wouldn't go with 'em."

"I've heard of these, _'Pitoleros_.' Rumor has it that they used to be a splinter faction of the Lost, and they _may_ be responsible for running Trevor Phillips out of Blaine County."

"They're serious contenders if they ran out Trevor."

"Speculation, all of it, but they're definitely worth keeping an eye on. I'll dispatch some guys, trail them. Hopefully they'll turn out to be nothing more than some hairy pricks going through a midlife crisis."

The two sat in silence for a moment as Matthew pecked away at his phone screen, no doubt already rounding up a crew to find out whatever they could about the Pistoleros. As of late he very rarely spoke directly to anyone other than Kyra and his secretary, Katie, but even then he mostly communicated with her via an intercom system. The business was growing, but so was his paranoia, it seemed that he began to fear his influence in Los Santos would be the precipice for his enemies to begin plotting against him. In normal circumstances his concern may have seemed like the uncouth worries of an anxious young upstart, but San Andreas was different, and like with most big fish it would only be a matter of time until he began to outgrow the pond, and everyone in his expansive wake would soon ally to fight against him. On the few occasions he did leave the high-rise he brought with him a security team that made Merryweather contractors look like Somali pirates.

"Alright," Matthew said, looking up from his phone. "Anything else important I should know about?"

"There's one thing." Kyra was hesitant, but she knew that if she didn't tell Matt about the biker she had seen he would eventually find out, and by then it may be too late. "I… saw somethin'."

"That something being what exactly?"

"A biker. He'd been shot in the head-"

"By you?"

"By I don't know who, but he wasn't doin' great. He's laid up at a house in Vinewood Hills with some hacksaw surgeon."

"Is there a point to all this, Kyra? Did your conscious finally catch up with you or something?"

"He said some things. Some things that someone from LS wouldn't know. Someone from San Andreas wouldn't know. He talked about… home."

Matthew said nothing, but instead stood up and walked to the massive window that stretched around his office, putting his arms behind his back and looking towards the direction of the Hills. The implications of finding someone else from back in the real world could be of an unparalleled magnitude, a chance to expand his inner circle with someone that didn't grow up in the deranged cesspool that was the GTA world. Though at the same time this man could very well be just another psychopath, no different than the ones that Kyra had killed before, or worse yet he could be another power hungry madman bent on using his knowledge of the world to line his pocket. The pendulum could swing both ways, but it wasn't a chance Matthew could afford to pass up on.

"You said he'd been shot. Outlook?"

"Not good, but I've seen worse."

"Get cleaned up, I need you keeping an eye on this guy. The minute he can walk, I want him in here, understood?"

"Can do." Kyra stood up from her chair and grabbed the metallic case that was one the floor, stomping her boots as she headed for the elevator.

"And for God's sake, change your clothes! You look like a damn butch."

…

Kyra could look like a proper woman when she wanted to, and considering the line of work she performed in her looks were surprisingly good. Stepping out of the shower she grabbed a towel and began to dry herself off, then made her way out into her bedroom where she walked to the window, staring out towards the city with her nude body on display for everyone to see. Being on the nineteenth floor, though, it was doubtful that anyone would actually be able to see her, but unbeknownst to many of her peers the idea of exhibitionism gave her quite a thrill, and really got her going. Her copper brown skin seemed to almost reflect the sunlight as it shone through the window, warming her body and sending a euphoric feeling throughout her entirety. As much as she could've remained there until the sun went down, Kyra had to get dressed and head back to the house where she had seen the wounded biker.

After throwing on some matching pink undergarments she slid into a pair of jet black leggings and a white tee shirt with a denim jacket, then jumping into some wedges and grabbing her case she was out the door and on her way down to the parking garage. There were several cars lining the concrete walls, and one empty spot where her Buffalo would be sitting had it not been riddled with bullet holes. She walked to the end of the aisle and climbed into a red Obey 9F Cabrio, starting the car and dropping the canvas top before she pulled out of the garage and gunned the V10 engine up the road. The car was certainly faster than her Buffalo, but she soon realized that it was more uncomfortable, as the slightly recessed seating didn't give her much view through the windshield.

After several minutes Kyra had made it to Vinewood Hills, cruising just a block away from the makeshift hospital she had seen earlier that morning before she found a quiet spot and parked the car. Getting out and making her way down the road the house was soon in sight, though several bikes and a car were now parked in the driveway, no doubt friends of the man who had been shot. The rear of the house seemed like it would probably be the best place to sneak around to, as it was more than likely unguarded, and the last place she had seen the man. Kyra quickly made her way around back, creeping through some bushes and working her way onto the deck before coming to an open window where she could her the sound of a hysteric woman and a few other men. Upon further investigation it soon became apparent that the window led directly into the room where the man was being held, and in a bed beside his a blond haired girl who, though awake, seemed to be in no position to move, as she had several bandages wrapped around her waist.

The crying woman was a redhead, and beside her stood a tall, beefy man, easily weighing over two hundred pounds of what was undoubtedly pure muscle. Two others stood in the room as well, a black haired woman who sat on the bed of the blonde girl, stroking her hair as she watched onwards at the crying redhead. Beside the man's bed stood another clad in leather and denim, the left side of his face mangled, but he stood tall and seemed to have no trouble getting around. Both the men wore patches on the back of their vests that said ' _The Lost_ ' in bold letters, meaning that the man lying in the bed was undoubtedly also a member. From behind Kyra she suddenly heard the cocking hammer on a pistol, and soon felt the cool metal of a gun barrel pressed against her head.

"Get up." It was a man's voice, though she could hear the undertones of an accent. She followed the man's orders and stood straight up, putting her hands above her head as her captor reached for the now exposed pistol in waistband. Snatching it away he grabbed her arm and yanked to the left, directing them both towards the back deck.

"Foreward," he said with a gruff tone. Kyra was now defenseless and walking straight into a hornet's nest, but she knew that her cooperation was the only way she was getting to talk to the mystery man.


	14. Friends in High Places

**Chapter 14: Friends in High Places**

Gwen hovered over the bed that held Ethan, the left quarter of his head and temple wrapped in bloodied rags as his body lay on the starch white sheets, unmoving, only the shallowest of breaths indicating that he was still alive. He had been unresponsive for nearly ten hours, and from the moment she had found out the tears seemed to have continuously fell, only recently stopping, as there was no moisture left to escape her eyes. Terry had been in the makeshift hospital room since they first arrived, assisting Doc to get control over the bleeding and prevent any further damage, but he felt that their efforts may be in vain, as Ethan had lost a significant amount of blood. Cricket had left two hours prior to try and relieve one of the local clinics of blood and plasma packs, but time was ticking, and without the blood Ethan had nearly zero chance of survival.

Johnny had taken up a posting beside the head of Ethan's bed, with Alexis in yet another jerry rigged stretcher lying just a few feet away as Olivia stroked her hair, trying to comfort the recovering girl after having seen so much in the past two days. No one spoke, rather sitting in silence, not by choice, but because they knew not what to say. Terry felt tremendous guilt, that everything they were forced to endure was his fault, and worst of all he felt responsible for Skid, not even able to bring the body back. No one blamed him, as they knew what happened was nobody's fault aside from the Pistoleros, though Johnny couldn't help but wonder how they had known about the raid. The only ones who knew of the failed attack were sitting in the room, or out looking for supplies to help their injured brother, leaving Johnny to ponder the idea that the Lost may have a rat operating inside.

Gwen slid into Terry's arms sobbing, the behemoth of a man wrapping her in a comforting squeeze as he drew her closer, running his fingers across his scalp and looking at the floor in shame. Doc had been sitting in the corner since the operation ended, clothes stained red from the blood, and his hands shaking form the stress of desperately trying to keep someone alive with so little equipment. He feared that even if the biker returned with the necessary blood and plasma that the wounds would become infected, as even the large doses of antibiotics he pumped into the man may not be enough. The afternoon sun baked the room, even as the AC blew on full blast, with the only other sound being that of birds singing on the railing and pecking at a feeder that was hanging from a corner post.

Gwen swung her head around, everyone else following in suit as they heard voices coming from the outside, muffled at first, but it soon became the distinct and familiar voice of an Irishman. Cricket had returned, and Gwen felt her heart sink in her chest as a sudden rush of gratuity and thankfulness washed over her, only it didn't seem that he had returned alone. The man was talking, but not to himself, rather he seemed to be ordering someone to follow directions, and as Doc stood and ran to the door Cricket sauntered through. In front of him stood a dark skinned woman, hands behind her head and clad in what at first appeared to be casual street apparel, though upon further inspection it was easy to tell that the clothes were higher end, and pinned into each lobe were diamond earrings. Johnny quickly crossed the room as Cricket pushed the woman through the door, stowing his pistol in his pants as he pointed a second at the girls back.

"Found 'er snoopin' about 'round the side of the house," Cricket said. "Keep an eye on 'er, I've gotta grab the supplies."

As Cricket jogged back out the door Terry and Johnny grabbed the woman by her arms and directed her to a chair in the corner of the room, whereupon being firmly planted Johnny proceeded to produce his pistol. Arm dangling from his waist with gun in tow, the president looked the girl up and down, ignoring Cricket as he came back and began to unload the supplies with Doc.

"Who the fuck are you," Johnny demanded to know. "And why the fuck were you hiding in the bushes?"

"My names Kyra," she returned with an irritated tone. "I'm here to see him."

The woman motioned towards Ethan, who was now having an IV inserted into his arm as Doc and Cricket scoured the boxes for the stolen blood packs and plasma. Gwen looked at the girl and wondered who she was to Ethan that she would sneak around his room as he lay unconscious on the cusps of death. She feared that perhaps the woman was sent to finish the job, but from what Terry had said the Pistoleros wouldn't have followed them back into Lost territory, and it was doubtful that they would send a woman to do their dirty work.

Kyra gawked at Ethan curiously, almost like someone gazing upon a work of modern art, or perhaps trying to interpret a riddle, the look of confusion and a want to understand, yet a lack of necessary prerequisite knowledge always holding them just at fingers length. Gwen didn't like her, and the girl's presence only resulted in the other members of the room growing more anxious and impatient, two qualities that didn't mix well with any member of the Lost. She seemed calm and collected, not just some passerby that happened to see a half dead man sprawled out on a gurney, but rather someone who had approached with intent. It was apparent that she hadn't intended to be captured, but she also showed no signs of the fear that one normally would upon being taken captive by angry bikers. This woman was obviously trained, or at the very least extremely hardened, and someone that wasn't to be taken lightly.

"Well, Kyra," Johnny started. "You mind telling me what exactly you want with my newest patch?"

"To talk." Kyra never took her eyes of Ethan, watching every shallow breath that he took, even when Johnny got right in her face at eye level.

"Anything you wanna say to him, you can say to us."

"I can't, actually."

"Oh, and whys that?"

"Classified information I'm afra-"

"Classified!?" Johnny didn't take well to that word, as the only other time he had heard someone genuinely use it in context was when he had to deal with federal agents. Without thinking he levelled the pistol at her head, taking a step back so as to put her out of range if she decided to try and take the gun. "You a fed?"

Kyra said nothing, instead looking back towards Johnny with a stoic face. In her stomach she could feel a slight knot starting, the kind someone usually gets during a life threatening experience, but she had to suppress it less her captors realize she retained a level of unease about the situation. Tucked away inside a small ankle sheath was a combat knife that she always kept on hand, though given her current surroundings it would do her little good to attack the bikers, as even if she managed to get the gun she would still be outnumbered six to one. Additionally, her chances of recruiting Ethan would drop significantly if any harm befell his comrades by her hand, so rather she did the only thing she thought would make sense in a situation where fighting couldn't get her out.

"I'm not a fed, and my associate and I are willin' to pay whatever it takes to make your friend healthy again."

The room went silent as everyone looked at one another, then back to the woman who had just offered to pay all expenses incurred to get Ethan on his feet. Johnny led Terry away to where Gwen couldn't hear them, but she knew that they were considering their options, and that more than likely, upon confirming the money was good, that they would accept the offer. Terry approached the woman as Johnny watched from a distance, as it was clear he didn't have the temperament to deal with her at the moment.

"I know you," Terry said with a finger pointing straight at Kyra. "Yer that chick we jacked on the highway. Saw you stole yer car back. I assume you weren't stupid enough to park that cage back out front?"

"Don't even own it anymore," returned Kyra with a smirk. "Got shot to shit by some assholes in Blaine County."

"Life's a bitch like that."

"True enough."

"So why you wanna help my friend?"

Gwen watched on as the two conversed, shocked that this stranger had simply offered to pay for the cost of Ethan's medical supplies, and anything else that he would need. She carried herself with poise and dignity, but at the same time her eyes were clouded with the ambiguity of a killer. Kyra reminded Gwen of Olivia in that sense, as the woman had the kind and caring heart of a mother, and yet without a second thought she would rip another's throat out to protect her family and the club. This stranger was an enigma, and though there was doubt running through every fiber of Gwen's being, she prayed against all odds that the girl was being sincere, and that Terry and Johnny would let her help their dying friend.

"My reasons are my own," Kyra finally said. "Do you want my help or not?"

"Depends." Terry had doubt about the sincerity of the woman's charity in his voice. "What'chu offerin?"

"Full medical crew tending to his wounds, sanitized facilities, around the clock care, and of course full physical therapy once he recovers."

"Bullshit," cried Johnny, moving from behind Terry. "How do we know you ain't just here to finish the job for those Pistolero fucks?"

"If you leave him here he'll die, regardless of whatever supplies you bring in! Either get your head out of ass and realize that, or just shoot him now, because you-"

Before she could say another word Johnny had the ebony woman by the back of her hair, pulling her up to eye level and pressing her against the wall her chair had been propped up against. He was within a few inches of her face, and though she wanted desperately to fight back, the pain of hair being pulled from skin kept her from successfully finding a moment to strike at him. Johnny was clearly furious at how the woman had been addressing him, talking down as though he hadn't a clue about the deplorable condition his newest brother was in, and only exacerbating the already tense atmosphere that had been building in the room. Cricket and Terry watched on, neither lending Johnny nor Kyra a hand, as they both knew that without some physical pressure they would never be sure if they could trust the girl's character.

Releasing a warm, grotesque snort, Johnny looked into the woman's eyes and saw a sincere sense of frustration and concern, just the opportunity that he had been waiting for, the moment when he would know whether or not she could be trusted. Terry laid a hand across Johnny's shoulder, signaling him to back off and give the woman some space, though as he let her go and she fell to the ground, it was clear that she wasn't as shaken as they had anticipated. Kyra instead shot up, swiping the knife from her pant leg and lunging herself onto Johnny, where she promptly pressed the blade against his throat, pushing it with enough force to draw out a small trickle of blood. Everyone in the room clamored for their weapons, the sound of cocking slides and chambering rounds filling the air, and the noise of pattering feet as Doc ran for cover.

No one moved, as they knew any shot may only risk hitting Johnny, who surprisingly enough wasn't fighting back against the girl, but rather softly chuckling to himself as Kyra edged down harder and attempted a stern, intimidating expression.

"What's so funny?" Kyra was perplexed to say the least. Normally people either fought back or began to beg for their life, but this was different. Never had someone, whose life was balanced on the edge of her blade, openly mocked her by laughing straight at her face.

"So," replied Johnny. "How exactly would you plan on paying for everything?"

"My employer would be the one paying."

Everyone in the room watched anxiously as the two talked, Kyra never relenting her grip on the knife, and Johnny never seeming to care that she could end his life with one swift movement of her hand. They talked for what seemed like an eternity before an agreement was finally made, one that was beneficial for the both of them, and would hopefully lead to the end of the Pistoleros operations in Blaine County.

…

Gwen watched from the door as men in blue smocks carted Ethan away on a small gurney, he tossed about ever so slightly as he lay there, unaware that he was being taken to a facility where people he had never met before would be responsible for ensuring that he recover. It pained her to know that she couldn't do anything, and though Terry tried to consul her, the only solace she found comfort in was knowing that the one she felt so deeply for was at least being given a fighting chance at survival. It would be an adjustment not getting to see his cheerful smile every time they were together, and though the woman they had come to know as Kyra offered them the chance to come see their comrade, Gwen knew that it would be difficult for her to see him in his disheveled state. As the men closed the door to the van that they had placed Ethan in, Gwen gave a final wave farewell before they took off down the road.

She stood in the doorway for near on five minutes before she even thought about moving, but by that time Olivia had come up behind her and wrapped her in a hug, at which point Gwen could feel the tears begin to well up in her eyes again at the thought of Ethan being laid out on the stretcher. Olivia rubbed a hand up and down her back before saying:

"He'll be alright. They're gonna take good care of 'im."

"What if something happens," Gwen questioned, trying to compose herself. "What if he never wakes up and just stays like that forever."

"Not likely," ensured a gruff voice. It was Johnny, who came out with a cigarette in hand. "That shit head's a fighter. Little fucker'll pull through."

He handed the pack of smokes to Gwen, who eagerly grabbed one from the plastic and lit it off Johnny's, taking in a deep breath and exhaling as the slight tingle and burning sensation singed around her lungs. Gwen had never thought she would be a smoker, but after having been put through so much in her short time since arriving in LS she soon realized that it may be the only thing that would keep her sane. The trio stood outside for several moments toking on their respective cigarettes and taking in everything that had happened within the past couple of days, Terry and Cricket soon joining them after loading some things up in the back of the vehicle Olivia and Gwen had come in. From down the road a ways they heard the sound of a motorcycle engine, V-Twin judging by the throaty grumble it was giving off, the exhaust echoing through the confined neighborhoods as it drew closer.

It wasn't uncommon for bikes to travel the Vinewood Hills, as the breaks in the housing often gave way to some of the most beautiful vistas the city had to offer, only making it that much more ironic that hundreds of homes built to bask in such grandeur would be the very things obstructing so much natural wonder. Johnny reached for the pistol tucked in waistband, fearing that the bike belonged to a Pistolero scout, perhaps the club had gotten word on where their prey had fled to and were sending a point man to survey the area. As the rider turned the corner just up the road it became clear that it wasn't a Pistolero, but rather a member of the Lost racing his Wolfsbane down the road at breakneck speeds. Gwen wondered who this man was, as Johnny had told no one where they would be aside from Quick, and given the swiftly approaching man's frame and choice of ride, it was quite obvious the rider wasn't Quick.

As he drew closer the sight of bloodstains and burnt clothing became apparent, standing out in stark contrast against the light denim cuts he wore, and made worse by the fact he clutched a still bleeding bullet wound with his left arm. There would be no stopping, as when the bike slowed the rider lost control and toppled to the ground, skidding along the pavement before coming to a stop just feet away from where the small group stood. Before he even saw the bike go down Terry was racing across the road, Johnny and Cricket following closely behind, and before her body even had time to process what it was doing, Gwen found herself running towards the injured man wondering what she could do to help him.

Sliding on his knees Terry fell to the ground and scooped the biker up in his right arm, placing pressure on the wound in the man's right side and trying to keep him elevated. As Gwen approached she realized that even without a background in medicine she knew the man wasn't going to survive much longer, as along with the bullet wound nearly three quarters of his face had been scorched to almost the bone, and the fall had taken off a significant amount of skin from his left arm. Gasping for air he grabbed Terry by the collar with a weak hand and attempted to speak, but his mouth was obviously dry and burnt, making it difficult to form any coherent words.

"Mikey," Terry muttered stunned, gagging as patches of the man's burnt flesh peeled off in his palms. "Who did this to you?"

"Pistoleros." The words were weak and barely audible, nearly drowned out by the sound of curdling blood making its way up the man's trachea before pooling in his mouth.

"Doc!" Terry shouted, but with what little strength he had left, Mikey pulled the dazed Sargent-at-Arms in close.

"The club… it's burning."

With that his arms went limp, and his body lost all tension as Terry laid his head on the pavement, fighting either the urge to breakdown in tears, or rip the head off the first person to speak to him. No one moved, even Johnny stood in total silence, shocked by what he had just witnessed, but Gwen threw herself onto Terry, wrapping her arms around him from behind and squeezing him into a tight hug. The man laid his hands across her arms in return, keeping his head angled towards the ground in silent concentration as Cricket laid a hand across his right shoulder.

"We gotta go, T," Cricket said to a solemn tone. "The lads at th' club need us."

Almost instantly Terry bolted up, shoving his way past the two that had attempted to console him and jumping on his bike. With a hefty kick the engine roared to life, rattling the windows of nearby houses as Terry dead revved the engine, forcing the motor to TAC out and hit its rev limiter. Before Johnny and Cricket could even mount their rides Terry was already laying a strip of rubber across the doctors driveway as he peeled out, leaving behind a smoldering skid mark and heavy smoke. Olivia grabbed Gwen by the arm and made a mad dash for the Declasse Gang Burrito parked in the driveway, throwing the girl in and quickly taking off in tow of the two other bikers that had just left. Gwen had no idea what awaited them at the clubhouse, but she did know that they were more than likely driving straight into a trap, no doubt setup by the same people that had put Ethan in a hospital bed. Her blood boiled, and a sadistic rage seemed to engulf her subconscious, letting free a murderous wretch that had every intention of seeking revenge on those that had put a bullet in the only man she loved.

"There's a box in the back," Olivia shouted over the straining engine. "Get out whatever's in it."

Gwen climbed into the back and saw the box that she believed Olivia to be referring to, and much to her surprise it looked shockingly similar to the ones that her and Alexis had loaded earlier, though this one had different markings. As she pried open the wooden lid, Gwen was shocked to find four semi-automatic Shrewsbury Heavy shotguns, all sporting angled fore grips and large 12 Ga. drum magazines. Pulling out two the young woman returned to the passengers' seat and planted herself firmly against it, handing one of the firearms to Olivia, who threw it across her lap and proceeded to apply even more pressure to the gas pedal.

"You ever shot one of these?" Olivia was clearly furious, and Gwen didn't want to make the situation any worse, so she felt that lying was the best option.

"Enough to know how they work," Gwen replied.

"Well get reacquainted, 'cause you're gonna need it."

Gwen worked the action and flipped the safety back and forth, understanding that once she had a round racked in the chamber, all she would need to do is make sure that the safety was off, then point and fire. So many times before the very thought of having to kill would make her queasy following the liquor store incident, but Gwen was no longer afraid, instead she was ready for a fight, praying that she could seek retribution against those that had wronged her newfound family. Safety and weakness were no longer concerns, clouded by blind fury and a bloodlust that would be satiated only by the swift reckoning that she had intended to bring down upon their aggressors. Still yet in the back of her mind resided a small voice pleading with her not to rush in head long, and consider her options, but it was weak and drowned out by the screeching inferno of hatred that squalled in her head. Gwen was going to kill, and for the first time in her life she wasn't just void of fear; she was genuinely looking forward to watching someone suffer.

…

The clubhouse was a scene of absolute devastation, with most of it having been reduced to rubble and ash by a fire that still lightly flickered where the bar had once been, and the remainder seemed riddled with bullet holes from automatic rifles and small caliber pistols. Cricket and Johnny sifted through the wreckage, trying to identify the remains of some members that had been caught in the blaze, though the point was likely moot, as most were too charred to even recognize without a dental analysis. Gwen sat on her knees in the middle of the street, cradling a shotgun across her lap as she looked inwards at Terry, who stood in the center of the burned out building. He didn't move, nor did he make a sound, but rather just stared towards nothing with an open mouth and glazed, dead eyes, clearly unable to fathom the level of devastation that he was looking at.

An eerie silence loomed up and down the street, as the absence of emergency vehicle sirens and passing pedestrians showed fowl play had been at work, and that before lighting the inferno the Pistoleros must have paid off the fire department and police to not respond to the call. Johnny skulked towards Terry, head tilted slightly to the side as he attempted to see his friends face, but only seeing the mountain of a man staring towards a partial wall, just as he had been doing since they arrived. He reached a hand towards his friend, but Cricket was quick to grab Johnny's wrist and give a heavy hearted head shake. Johnny conceded, instead looking at the back of Terry's head and pondering what he could possibly say to the man that would snap him out of his daze.

"Terry," he finally said. "We gotta go, brother, they'll be back any minute."

"It's gone." Terry's few words resonated hard with everyone, and though they were spoke softly, they ripped through the air like a supersonic jet.

"We'll rebuild it, but we've gotta-"

"Rebuild?" Terry spun around on his heels and looked furiously at Johnny. "Look at this. We can't just rebuild'."

"Not here, but somewhere else. Somewhere safer."

"Where is safer, Johnny? This was our _clubhouse_ , this was supposed to be as safe as it got. Look around, there's nowhere safe."

"We just have to regroup, find Quick and the others, then-"

"Then what!? Wait to get killed!? More than half the fuckin' charter is lying under six tons of burnt rubble, and you think we can just regroup and brush it off?"

"Watch yer fuckin' mouth, T. I'm still your _President_!"

Terry walked over to Johnny and towered over the man like a skyscraper, twice as broad as the "President" and nearly twice the build. Gwen watched as the two stared at one another, the intensity growing ever greater by the second, and with it too grew the impending fist fight that was bound to happen unless someone intervened.

"Back at the Doc's," Terry said, finally breaking the silence and lowering his intimidating poise. "You know what I saw?"

"What," Johnny replied.

"I saw Cowboy, bandages across his dome and a hole through the side of his fuckin' head, and I thought to myself, ' _This is your fault, T. You're th' one that got 'im killed.'_ But I saw more than just that. I saw you Johnny, the day that Trevor tried to stomp yer fuckin' brains out, and these old scars, they hurt when I did. They hurt at the thought of havin' to drag you and Clay for ten fuckin' miles, knowin' that you were probably both as good as dead. They hurt when the club turned on itself, when I saw brother killin' brother. Then you came back from the fuckin' dead, rose like a God damn phoenix and saved those old values that made us _Lost_. I know that Cowboy's gonna be okay, and the club's gonna come back like it always does, but I'm afraid, Johnny. I'm afraid when I look at all these dead brothers, that when my time finally comes that I'm gonna have to answer for everyone that I got killed. I couldn't stop Trevor at Stab City, I couldn't save Skid, I couldn't stop that fat fuck that shot Cowboy and I wasn't even smart enough to realize that somethin' like this would prob'ly happen. I've got a lot to answer for, brother, and I'm afraid."

Everyone stood breathless, shocked at what Terry, the wall of emotionless muscle and sheer willpower, had just said. Nobody blamed him for what had happened, not with Johnny, or Ethan, and certainly not with the attack on the club, but it was painfully obvious that Terry was suffering from survivor's guilt, and the attack on the club had only seen to bolster his feelings of regret and mourning. Johnny's gaze wandered towards the floor, finally returning to Terry before he said:

"Listen, what happened, all of it, it ain't your fault, T. It's mine. If I hadn't been doin' all that ice then the Trevor thing would've never happened, and maybe the club wouldn't of split. This though, the clubhouse, this is those Pistolero cock suckers. Yer the only son of a bitch that kept it together all these years, and God knows this club ain't comin' back without you. T, I'm sorry tha-"

Before Johnny could finish his sentence a volley of rifle fire opened up on the group of survivors that were standing around the bombed out remains of their clubhouse, and from around the corner arrived four vans fully loaded with bikers looking to finish off the remnants of the Lost. Olivia was the first to return fire, sending several slugs through the windshield of the lead van and splattering the driver and passengers' brain matter across the backseats and onto their comrades. Gwen lunged upwards, rolling onto her back and firing three shot in the engine block of another encroaching van, bringing it to a stop and forcing the occupants out into the open. In the burnt ruins Terry and Johnny grabbed for their pistols, while Cricket grabbed an AKM that had been spared the inferno and was partially buried under a fallen board.

As the assailants continued to arrive on the scene it seemed that the miniscule amount of return fire the survivors could coordinate was doing little to stem the tide of men that seemingly threw themselves at the building. Gwen fired another round at an approaching biker, blowing apart a large portion of his skull and hitting the man next to him with bone fragments. She was reminded of the firefight that day in the Cluckin' Bell, and how Ethan fought so hard to protect her and the others.

 _If he were here,_ she thought. _We wouldn't have to worry. He'd just rush in without thinking and manage to figure out something._

Gwen knew that there was no chance of him showing up to save her, and without any way to find out where the remainder of the club was chances were slim that anyone would be coming to the rescue. As the battle wore on ammunition was quickly becoming scarce, and Cricket was forced to bolt from cover time and again to retrieve weapons and ammo from fallen Pistoleros, exposing himself to enemy fire and endangering his own life. It had been nearly thirty minutes and already signs of fatigue were beginning to show within the small group, as the sustained fire was wearing on everyone's psyche. Reloading her last magazine into the blazing hot shotgun, Gwen contemplated her life, or at least what little she remembered of it, anf she decided that given the chance to do it all over again, meet Ethan, Olivia and the club, she wouldn't change a thing. As she sent up a small prayer to whomever maybe watching over them, a loud thud impacted the ground not far from her, where upon further inspection she realized it was a small, ceramic studded object, almost rock like in shape.

"Grenade," shouted Cricket, grabbing the small, antiquated explosive and pitching back towards their attackers. It traveled only a matter of feet before detonating, blowing shrapnel and debris all around the area and sending Cricket flying backwards, impacting the ground and rolling to a stop nearly twenty feet from where he was originally standing.

"Cricket!" Gwen threw her gun to the floor and lunged for the man's unmoving body, rolling him over and revealing that pieces of the grenade had lodged themselves throughout his face, burning his forehead and knocking him unconscious. He was alive, though if they couldn't get him somewhere safe to recover he may not be for much longer. Olivia ran to Gwen's side, and working together they pulled Cricket behind the remains of a low cinderblock wall, propping him up and returning to their weapons. Without someone quick enough to run for more ammo and weapons the situation on grew bleaker, and as Gwen fired the last of the slugs from her Shrewsbury, it became apparent that they would soon be overwhelmed.

Terry fired what few rounds remained in his pistol before pitching the weapon aside, furious at the lack of ammo, and enraged seeing yet another of his friends lying wounded. As the Pistoleros realized their targets were nearly beaten, they prepared for a final push, rallying behind a now dead cargo van and reloading their firearms. Just as the first biker moved from around the corner, pump shotgun in hand, a barrage of fire began to fill the air, except it didn't come from the Pistoleros. Instead, Gwen looked onwards and saw an Insurgent LAPV armed with a .50 caliber heavy machine gun opening up on what remained of the biker attack force, sending those that weren't caught in the fire scurrying for cover. In an instant men armed with Vom Feuer Assault Shotguns and Advanced Rifles were disembarking from the LAPV, establishing a defensive perimeter and laying down suppressive fire as two more armed Insurgents arrived on the scene. Within moments the fight had ended, and twelve men lined the streets dressed in tactical apparel, all sporting the same sharp uniforms and clad with rebreather apparatuses to filter dust and smoke.

As Gwen and the rest poked their heads out to see what had just happened, they saw walking towards them a man with two large gold bars plastered to his left arm, and a Combat Pistol strapped to his hip. Johnny stood from behind cover and pointed his 9mm at the man, resulting in several of the other uniformed men drawing their weapons on the battered club President. The approaching man was un-phased by Johnny's attempt to dissuade him from coming any closer, and stopped a mere few feet away from where the band of survivors were tucked behind cover. After stopping the soldier removed his mask, revealing a face with chiseled features and a buzz cut hairdo, add in the muscles bulging from his tight vest and the man could easily be described as Adonis incarnate.

"Lieutenant Maxwell Coyne," he stated. "Esposito Security Contracting and Protection Services. ESCPS for short."

"Johnny Klebitz," returned Johnny, holding a bead on the lieutenant's head. "President of the Lost, Los Santos Charter."

"We were sent by our mutual associate, Matthew Esposito."

"How the hell did you know to come here," Terry demanded to know, finally revealing himself from behind a scorched support beam.

"There's not a thing that goes on in this city that Mr. Esposito doesn't know about, and a biker war in his city is certainly something worth knowing about."

The lieutenant motioned his right hand and many of the soldiers began to load back into their vehicles, leaving the dead Pistoleros scattered about, and gathering what weapons they could find dropped about the battlefield. Gwen slowly stood from behind her cover, pulling Cricket's arm up and over her shoulder before attempting to drag him out and towards the Insurgents. Two men quickly came to her aid, grabbing the wounded man and taking him to the bed of a waiting truck, where they loaded him and began giving him medical attention.

"Did our friend make it to your building," Gwen sheepishly asked the lieutenant, worried that Ethan's transport may have been ambushed en route.

"The team tending to a Mr, Ethan arrived a few minutes before we left. He's at the facility and more than likely being treated as we speak. Right now, though, I've been ordered to provide you with an escort to a safe house outside the city. Up near-"

"Paletto Bay," interrupted Johnny. "So there were survivors then?"

"At least six, but we lost satellite coverage a while bike, so possibly more."

"Why are they at Paletto Bay," Olivia asked, walking towards Johnny.

"If anything ever happened it's where we agreed to regroup at," Johnny answered. "Probably not the safest place seeing as how it's past Pistolero territory, but maybe hiding under their noses is the best bet right now."

Gwen watched as everyone gathered what little they had, Johnny and Olivia kissed one another, and Terry mulled over the building scrapes before returning to his bike, which had miraculously been spared during the gunfight. As her and Olivia loaded back into the van, Gwen look one last look at the remnants of her one time home, and bid it farewell before driving out of the city escorted by three armored trucks.

 **Hello again, everyone. Sorry for the belated update, but my girlfriend and I bought a new puppy last week and it has been difficult to find a free moment to say the least. I will hopefully be going into a new job soon, so chapters may have some time in between them, but they will come I assure you. My intentions are to get another three or four up before this job is verified, so fear not, as I will not be going off the grid for a year like I did before. Anyway, getting back to the story, I know that this chapter was a bit slow, but what's a good story without some nonviolent character development? I'll answer that for you, it's boring; but necessary! Judging by the insane number of views and visitors I've been tracking, though, it's pretty apparent that the followers who have a vested interest in this fic genuinely enjoy all the chapters, even the boring ones. It's great to get on here and see such positive reviews, even the older ones, and I wanted to thank everyone for their criticism and continued viewing. Be sure to tap that favorite button if you really liked the story, and always feel free to leave a review, as your opinions only help to ensure a quality story. Until next time, keep on keepin', brothers.**


	15. The Prodigal Son

**Chapter 15: The Prodigal Son**

Ethan swung the heavy oak double doors open with a boisterous crack, knocking them against their respective walls, and sending a loud echo throughout the room before storming his way across the office to a man sitting astride a velvet lined swivel chair. Two guards stationed at either end of the office drew their pistols, taking a step forward as to apprehend the man clad in hospital attire, but the lawyerly gentleman, poised calmly in his seat, held up a palm and they quickly holstered their weapons.

"I'm leaving, Michael," shouted Ethan with a gruff tone, a scowl sprawled across his face. "It's been three God damned months, and I am _sure as shit_ not staying one more minute!"

Kyra quickly trotted in to the grandiose office, trying to catch her breath as she sputtered, "I'm sorry, Michael, as soon as I heard he was headed this way I tried to get here to stop 'im."

"It's quite alright," Michael returned with a wicked smile, standing up and walking to the edge of his desk. "Ethan here was just about to tell me he was departing."

Michael leaned against the old cedar wood, placing his hands behind him to support himself, and proceeded to look Ethan directly in the eyes with a deeply unsettling smile, the type of which Ethan had grown ever used to in the time spent in the man's presence. Pointing a finger directly at Michael, Ethan began, "You're damn right I am. It's been over three months and I haven't seen the outside except through windows, let alone been allowed to find out what's goin' on with the club, and now yer fuckin' doctor says you want me here for another _month_ at least!? Fuck that!"

"Ethan," Kyra started, but Michael quickly shot her a vile look, forcing her to hold her tongue, and reiterating that he wasn't a man whom you wanted anger.

"Listen," Michael stated in a chilled, almost demeaning tone. "I just want to make sure that you're back up to snuff before you stroll back out onto the streets of Los Santos. After all, it's a rough place, as I'm sure a man of your particular trade is already well aware."

Before he finished Michael raised his left hand and tapped it against his eye, reminding Ethan of the piece of him that was no longer there, the piece that the Pistoleros saw fit to take from him. There was no doubt he intended to make sure Ethan remembered the debt he owed for Michael having saved his life, and to frustrate the broken biker in an attempt to make him leave the room embarrassed, but it wouldn't work this time. Ethan stepped forward and put his finger closer to Michael's face, flaring his nostrils and bulging his one good eye.

"Don't think for a second I forgot what I owe you," he furiously remarked. "But I will _not_ be kept here like some caged animal."

Ethan turned and stomped his way out of the room, exuding an almost palatable anger, and shoulder bumped Kyra on his way by, glancing at her with a look that could only be described as liken to an angry boar. Kyra looked at Michael both in disgust and confusion, but he didn't meet her gaze, rather he closed his eyes, smirked, and walked back around his desk, sitting down and going about his work. Rushing to catch up with the outraged biker, she finally reached Ethan just as the doors to the elevator were closing.

Ethan slammed the "1" button several times when Kyra jumped in the lift with him, quickly tapping the "19" before the doors shut.

"What," Kyra questioned. "Do ya think you're just walk through th' front doors and no one's gonna stop you?"

"Watch me," Ethan exclaimed, rolling up the sleeves on his baby blue hospital gown.

"You'll get yourself killed."

"At least I won't be trapped in _this_ fuckin' place anymore."

When Ethan first woke up, he'd been told that it'd been nearly two months since the incident with the Pistoleros, but at that time he was still weak, and needed physical therapy to help with the wounds he had sustained. During his month stay in the Esposito building, Ethan came to know about what had happened following the gunshot, how Terry and Cricket saved him, and how Kyra and Michael found out he was from the same world as them. He was thrilled to finally be in the company of people from the old world, but his time in the building had only taught him that Michael was more secretive than Ethan liked, and he had a tendency of using those around him. It was clear he intended to use his leverage over Ethan to get something from him, but Ethan had no intention of allowing that to happen, regardless of what he owed the man.

"Just come with me first," Kyra insisted.

"Why?"

"God damn, you just can't listen, can you?"

"My mom always said I was stubborn."

"Well that ain't no shit." The elevator slowed to a stop on the 19th floor and the doors slid open, revealing a long, extravagant corridor, lined with potted plants, beautiful pinewood floors, and gold trimmed crown molding. Ethan was a little awestruck, as it was one of the floors he never had reason to visit, so he'd never seen it up until now. "C'mon."

"Look," Ethan returned, holding the elevator door open with one arm. "I get you think you're doing the right thing tryin' to convince me not to leave, but I'm not stayin' here another minute."

"First of all," Kyra returned, placing her right hand on her hip and standing her ground. "I never said I was tryin' t' keep you here. Secondly, if ya don't get yo ass off the damn elevator, I'm goin' drag ya off."

Ethan paused for a moment, then looked around, weighing his options and deciding that maybe trying to rush a bunch of armed guards with automatic weapons, himself carrying nothing more than his fists, probably wasn't an intelligent idea. Reluctantly, he stepped off the lift and began walking towards Kyra, who had turned and begun strolling down the hallway towards a large wooden door. When they finally arrived, Kyra pulled a keycard from her pocket and held it against a reader beside the door for a moment, before the sound of electronic tumblers opened, revealing what appeared to be a bedroom. As the two walked in Ethan was taken aback at the sheer beauty of the view he was able to see through a giant plate glass window overlooking the entire city.

He meandered over to the cityscape view and looked down upon the concrete jungle below, not believing that he would have ever thought a city could even compare to the beauty of his home in Kentucky. The sun had just begun to rise in the distance, but the noise of the city coming to life was deafened by sound proof glass, replaced instead by the slight ambience music that played in the overhead speakers. Kyra walked up beside him and smiled at the man as he stood in awe, taking in the sights from so high above the city.

"Sometimes I just sit here for hours and look out at it," Kyra finally said.

"It's gorgeous," Ethan answered, but quickly turned and walked away from the glass. "To bad I know that it's actually a shithole down there."

Taking a moment to look about their surroundings, Ethan realized that the room was rather well kempt, with scented oil burners sitting next to a massive bed that could've easily fit three or four people. He assumed this to be Kyra's bedroom, considering how exceptionally maintained it was, and seeing that she had a keycard it only made sense. The ebony woman walked herself to an armoire on the far side of the room and opened the doors, grabbing a small, neatly folded pile of clothing and bringing them back over to Ethan, where she sat them on the bed.

"I figured you may want somethin' more comfortable," she said before returning to the armoire. "Sweatpants really don't do you justice."

Ethan reached down and grab the clothes, revealing a tank top, blue jeans, socks and underwear. He quickly changed out of the attire he was in and threw on what Kyra had brought out, which surprisingly fit quite well. He felt far more at home in the blue jeans, which were obviously of a nicer make than anything he'd have been able to afford, even back home.

Kyra walked back over and dropped a pair of square toed boots on the ground at Ethan's feet, then shoved a wallet, cell phone, and keys into his hands.

"Saddle up, cowboy," she said walking away into what Ethan assumed was a bathroom.

What she had handed him was his old wallet, with about $4000 extra than what he had prior, and his phone from before, but the keys looked like they belonged to a vehicle. He stuck them in his pocket anyway, and proceeded to pull his boots on before standing back up and making his way across the room to a full body mirror that hung from a closet door. For a moment he almost didn't recognize himself; his head buzzcut, a scruffy beard that had grown over what used to be a clean-shaven face, and he was slightly skinnier than before, not having regained his former muscle mass. What was most present to him, however, were the bandages that were now wrapped around the left side of his face, covering a good portion of his skull. Running his fingers across the medical gauze he could feel the roughness of the fabric, and lamented on the disfiguring wound that he was now forced to adorn, reminded of the night so many months prior.

Although he had been in the facility for nearly three months, Ethan hadn't given a lot of thought to what had happened that night, but now, looking at himself, his mind wandered to Cricket and Terry, and worst of all, Skid. He remembered the young boy's terrified pleas of mercy as the Pistoleros prospect pulled the trigger. The blood and brains running from the back of his skull, and how Terry just seemed to come unhinged. It was a memory that would likely haunt him for the rest of his life, but for now it was just another ghost he'd have to deal with, one more death that he felt he should've been able to prevent.

He wondered if Gwen would even recognize him, what sort of hell she'd been going through worrying about him, or if she would even still be waiting when he finally returned to the clubhouse. The solace and self-pity were interrupted, however, as Kyra reopened the door and came back out with a small cardboard box, no bigger than a toaster, which she set on the bed and pulled back the top to. Inside was another Hawk & Little .50 pistol with an IWB holster, same as the one that Ethan had before.

"Max got you this from the armory," Kyra said with a smile. "Even went through the trouble of making sure the serial numbers were etched out of it."

"Prettyboy stole this," Ethan asked. "Damn, I didn't he had it in 'im."

"Listen, LT likes you. Says you're a good guy, whether you'll admit it or not."

"Tell Prettyboy I owe 'im one."

Ethan slid the holstered pistol into the back of his pants and moved it around a bit to find a good position, then pulled his tank top down over the gun. Stretching his arms a bit, Ethan looked at Kyra and said, "So, how the hell are we bustin' out?"

" _We_ aren't going anywhere," she answered. " _You_ , however, are going to walk out the garage."

"You really think Michael will just let me walk out of here?"

"No, I don't, but I have access to every part of this building, so he doesn't have to know a thing."

"Don't you think the security cameras will kind of give it away that I'm escaping?"

Kyra walked over to the armoire she had gotten into earlier and began to pull it away from the wall, uncovering the outline of what appeared to be a door. Pushing on it, the wall clicked, then popped outwards and opened, revealing a service entrance lined with steps that seemed to lead straight down at a rather sharp angle. Ethan walked over and looked into the dark below, the stairs eventually trailing off into the inky blackness where he could no longer see. Moving the man aside, Kyra grabbed a flashlight that was mounted to the inside wall and began her descent, Ethan trailing closely behind her.

…

Kyra exited the small door first, followed by Ethan, who was feeling rather confined in the tight passageway. As they stepped out, Ethan was greeted by bright overhead LED lights, a buffed, white marble floor, and cars all around him; it was as though he had died and gone to some sort of gearhead version of heaven. The two wandered around the garage for what seemed like two or three minutes before they finally approached a secluded area with nothing in it except one lone motorcycle.

It was Ethan's candy apple bagger, as bright and polished as the day it rolled off the assembly line, and there she was, waiting for him like she was supposed to be there. He quickly walked over and began looking it up and down, noticing some forward controls replacing the old stock floorboards, a sleeker tank, and the all too apparent new wheels. He didn't care about the cosmetics though, because the plates read the same, and he was thrilled to be back together with it.

"I figured you might want it back," Kyra remarked with a smile, watching as the biker inspected his ride as though it were a fine quarter horse.

"So the boys brought it here for me," he questioned.

"Not quite. There's some things we need to talk about, which is why I waited until we were down here before I brought it up."

Ethan looked at her with some concern before sitting on the bike and responding. "Such as?"

"Wow," she said brushing hair away from her eyes. "Okay, so this is goin' be a little rough, so I'ma just come out and say it. You were in a coma for 15 months, not two. Michael lied to you because he knew if you thought it was longer, you'd flip out and try to run before you were ready."

"Are yo-"

"Shut up, there's more. After your friends got you back somewhere safe, the Pistoleros launched an all-out attack on your clubhouse. They burnt it to the ground and killed a lot of people. If it weren't for Michael sending in Max and the security team, they would've killed a lot more. I'm sorry, I didn't wanna keep thi-"

"Just stop," Ethan interjected. "I don't care what you have to say, because nothing will make this any better." The two sat in total silence for what seemed like an eternity. "Is there anything else I _need_ to know about?"

"No…"

Ethan started the bike and revved the engine a few times, looking over the fairing directly at the ground and saying nothing. He wasn't sure how to process any of what Kyra had just told him, and even if he did he wouldn't know how he should be reacting. The clubhouse was gone, his brothers were dead or scattered, and for all he knew Gwen thought he was dead.

 _15 fucking months,_ he thought to himself. _Where the fuck do I go from here. Is she even alive?_

"Max said that some of them went to Paleto Bay," Kyra finally noted, shifting from one foot to another. "Gwen, Terry, and Johnny were still alive."

"What about Cricket," Ethan asked.

"I don't know. Max said he was banged up when they found 'em, but Michael wouldn't let us help him, only you."

"Figures that piece of shit wouldn't help _him_."

"I know he can seem like a real asshole from time to time, but he's honestly a nice guy. He just has to look out for us, ya know. It ain't exactly like we belong here to begin with, and word is someone's been kidnappin' people like us."

Ethan knew all too well exactly who was doing the kidnapping, but he wasn't about to let slide what Connor had told him. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kyra, in fact he found her to be one of the most trustworthy consiglieres he had come across since he had arrived, but rather, he wanted to be the one to confront his former friend, to be the one to put a stop to everything that he had done. There was almost certainly no way to save Connor from the life he had chosen, Ethan had come to terms with that, but he thought that maybe he might be able to get through to him, to convince him to tell Ethan were Mark had been taken. If Michael found out, however, there wouldn't be a snowball's chance in hell, seeing as how he would just send his security force to stomp the Pistoleros out.

"One more thing before you go," Kyra shouted above the bike engine. "When the Pistoleros drove the Lost out of LS, they couldn't seal a foothold because of Max killin' so many of 'em. With no one to fill the vacuum it left, a bunch of smaller MCs started poppin' up to try an' take it, so watch your back out there."

"Thanks," Ethan replied.

Kyra approached Ethan and pulled out a pen, then wrote down a phone number on his arm and said, "That's my number. If you ever need anything, just call me."

"Aren't you worried about how Michael is gonna respond to me leaving?"

"Nah, I think he always knew you were gonna get out. This was prob'ly just a lot sooner than he expected. I'll open the door for you, just stay safe out there."

With that the woman walked away towards a small panel mounted on the wall and pressed a large black button, opening the door and allowing Ethan a clear path to the freedom he so desired. Before pulling out he shot her a quick smile and nodded his head, revving the engine hard and quickly burning down the street, not knowing where to go or what to do.

…

Ethan had been riding for hours with no real place to go, he was finally free, and though he should've been headed towards Paleto Bay, he wanted to ride around LS to get a feel for how the city had changed since he'd been gone. New billboards throughout downtown advertised DIY private security companies, recently opened auto body shops plastered their names across the alleys and side streets of the city, and worst of all, several MCs had tried going mainstream, and were running ads all over the place for prospects to join up. Things had certainly changed, the latter of all seemed to disgust Ethan the most, as many of these so called "clubs" had commercialized the ideas of brotherhood and freedom, and for Ethan that was enough to make him want to vomit. Money and expensive bikes could never replace the comradery of knowing that your brother had your back, and that you had his.

It wasn't the time to reminisce about days gone by, however, and Ethan was starting to run low on gas, so before he made a run for Paleto Bay he guessed that it would be smart to stop at the gas station on El Rancho Boulevard before continuing up the coast. As he pulled up to the pump and begin to select his gas, he realized that he had no idea where to start looking once he got to Paleto Bay. Though it wouldn't typically be difficult to find a group of rowdy bikers, with the Lost having been forced into hiding, it may make for a more challenging approach. Placing the nozzle back on the hook Ethan turned and began to walk into the gas station when he heard a group of motorcycles approaching from behind, and giving that they were blasting on the throttle like a bunch of children, he assumed that this was probably one of those MCs he had seen advertised.

He didn't bother to stop and look, though, instead walking straight into the gas station and approaching the elderly middle eastern man at the counter, who himself was busy watching the bikers outside, likely wondering what they were about to do.

"Hey," Ethan said to the old man, tapping his hand on the counter.

"Sorry," returned the clerk with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. For a moment he was caught off guard by Ethan's bandages, but quickly adjusted his gaze to the one good eye. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a pack of the Redwood Menthols. 100s."

"Yes, sir, right away."

Looking outside, Ethan could see two of the bikers he had heard pull in mulling around his bike, no doubt they were just admiring it, but he didn't like the idea of someone messing around with his baby. As one of them turned their back towards the station a large patch with a wild pig's head became visible, and the name "Warthogs" adorned the top rocker, accompanied by a "Los Santos" bottom rocker. A rage was beginning to build inside of Ethan at the sight of these Warthogs sporting that bottom rocker. As far as he was concerned, LS was still Lost territory.

"Anything else," the clerk asked as he rang the total in.

"Yeah," Ethan replied, not taking his gaze off the men outside. "Who're those assholes?"

"Oh, them." The old man turned around and shook his head. "After the Lost left, they took over a lot of the city. They're damn hoodlums. All they do is cause trouble. The murder rate has doubled around here since they showed up, and they're not even the worst one. I'd stay away if I were you."

"Thanks for the advice."

Ethan laid down a ten and walked away, grabbing a lighter as he left, and started making a line for his bike when the group of Warthogs spotted him coming out. The wiliest looking of the bunch, a short boy, no older than 19 with a 90's punk mohawk walked towards Ethan swinging his arms by his sides as though they were wet pasta. Sticking a cigarette in his mouth, Ethan quickly lit the smoke and took a drag.

"Damn, cyclops," the boy said scratching his chin. "Is that bike yo's?"

"Yeah," returned Ethan, taking another drag while continuing to walk passed the raggedy young biker.

Before he could get to his bike the mohawked boy stuck out his arm and stopped Ethan, taking a step back and in front of the ever more irritated Lost member. Looking down, Ethan saw that the boys name patch read Clyde, and on the opposite side was another patch that read enforcer.

"I wasn't done talkin' t' ya," he said.

"Well I was," Ethan retorted, pushing the boy aside and making his way towards his bike.

From behind, Ethan could hear the cock of a slide racking on a pistol, followed by two more coming from his right side. No doubt the kid was irritated with being shown so much disrespect, but Ethan didn't care, he was growing agitated at the situation, and had enough of the young man's poor attitude. Turning around he saw the man named Clyde with an older, almost vintage pistol pointed at him, and the other two carrying standard 9mm semi autos.

"Do you know who the fuck I am," Clyde asked with a scowl of irritation.

"A pissant with a bad attituded." Ethan knew he was in trouble, but for some reason he didn't care. He'd never felt like this before, his heart wasn't racing, he wasn't afraid of dying, he was just angry. Angry at these kids, angry at being lied to, angry at Michael. He was just angry at everything.

"We're fuckin' Warthogs!" Clyde stepped forward waving the pistols. "And we sure as shit ain't gonna take crap from a one eyed, piece of shit like-"

Before he could finish his sentence, a loud gunshot rang out, louder than a pistol, and the young man lurched forward, then fell to his knees, attempting to raise the weapon to Ethan before falling to the ground, exposing a large, bleeding back wound. Looking up, Ethan saw the gas station clerk pumping another round into a shotgun, then pointing it at the other two men, pulling the trigger and sending yet another flying to the ground. Before he could get another shell chambered, the remaining Warthog opened fire on the man, sending six rounds into his torso, causing him to stumble backwards through the door of the station.

Ethan quickly pulled out his .50, slid the rack and unloaded on the last biker, dropping the man to the ground on the final shot with a massive head wound. As he looked around, the scene was a blood bath, with the Warthog's corpses having turned the ground red, and customers pouring out of the store and running down the streets to get away. Holstering the pistol, Ethan ran and hopped on his bike, starting the engine and jumping on the throttle. As he roared down the road he cut a hard-right turn, pushing the bike to its limits and quickly looking for the on ramp to the Palomino Highway. Before long he was tearing down the blacktop, not even bothering to look back, and as he passed over the road he was on only moments ago he could see LSPD cruisers heading towards the gas station. There was no doubt he was back in Los Santos.

…

Riding past the Up n' Atom restaurant, Ethan could see the small town of Paleto Bay coming into sight, and the smell of sea salt hanging heavy in the air. Paleto Bay was out of the way, a good place to hide out if you were looking to get distance from someone, although it was too close to Pistoleros territory for him to feel comfortable. Still, the scenery was beautiful, and with it being such a small town, maybe it wouldn't be so hard for Ethan to find Johnny and the others.

Hanging a right, and then a left, Ethan turned onto what appeared to be main street, then began looking around for any sign of motorcycles, bikers, or something that would at least get him pointed in the right direction. After making a couple of passes and finding nothing, he decided that it was best to just stop and talk to some of the locals, maybe one of them had seen or heard something going on in the area. Pulling up to a small dive bar, Ethan killed his bike, then hopped off and walked up to the front door, which held a bright neon sign that read, _O'Malley's_ _Irish Pub_. Walking inside he couldn't help but chuckle at what the owner was trying to pass off as an Irish pub, with its country-rock playing in the background, American beer signs hung everywhere, and a distinct moose head hung on the far wall.

After ordering a pint of what he hoped was Guinness, Ethan took a deep breath and started looking around, although he immediately regretted both, as he nearly choked when he inhaled and was forced to smell the odorous stench of what could only be described as urine and stale beer. Gathering his senses and taking a sip, the atmosphere became somewhat more bearable, as the taste of bar sweat that had settled on his tongue was replaced with a stiff beverage. Looking around, Ethan didn't see anyone that resembled any of the old crew, in fact the only person who even came close was the bartender, a Scotsman who looked somewhat reminiscent of Cricket. Tapping his hand on the bar top he beckoned the man over for a round of questioning.

"Wha' ya need," asked the bartender, sounding as though he was already three sheets to the wind himself.

"I'm lookin' for some people," Ethan responded in tow. "Maybe you know where they are?"

"May, all jus' depends on who yer lookin' far."

"I'm told the Lost are runnin' 'round these parts lately."

The room seemed to come to a dead stop when Ethan mentioned the Lost; conversations stopped, drinks went down on their respective tables, and every eye in the building was now looking at the bandaged-up biker sitting smack dab in the middle of the bar. There was no point in turning around to return the gaze, Ethan knew that he no doubt may have just signed his own death warrant, but he had to remain composed, lest the company he was surrounded by smell any fear and set upon him like feral dogs. Reaching under the bar, the Scotsman pressed a button that made a long buzzing noise somewhere within the building, and he slowly laid his monstrous hand back on the counter, leaning on his elbows and closing the gap between him and Ethan.

"And who exactly told ya tha'?" The man had lost his cherublike demeanor, instead replacing his one-time smile with a stone-cold glare.

"A friend," Ethan said back to the man, not breaking his stare.

"Well, sounds t' me yer fren' don't like ya much."

"Why's that?"

"Because dem kinda questions are likely t' get ya killed 'round here."

From behind, Ethan could hear two or three men approaching him, and the bartender began to walk away, no doubt knowing what kind of a beating was about to take place, and not wanting to get blood on his clothes. Grasping at his now empty glass, Ethan planned on waiting until he felt the first sign of someone grabbing at him, then intended to smash the cup over their skull. There was no doubt he would lose, and seeing as how the barroom was packed a hasty exit wasn't likely an option, but he would be damned if he didn't at least put up a fight.

As he felt a hand grasp his right shoulder he quickly threw his left arm backwards and caught the man in the stomach with a stiff elbow, knocking the wind out of him before he stood and spun around on his boots, raising the glass high in the air and bringing it down on top of the man's head in a rather violent manner. The glass shattered and sent the assailant toppling to the floor, sending shards of glass fluttering about the room as the sound of scuffling chairs could be heard from all around. Ethan didn't even take time to look at the second man, instead using his momentum to take a wild swing through the air, hoping to hit something. Before the punch connected though, he stopped mid-swing, stunned at who he saw standing before him.

It was Terry Thorpe, right arm drawn back and ready to swing, standing directly opposite him, just as stunned as Ethan was to see who had smashed a glass over one of their newest prospects heads. The duo stood speechless for a moment, shocked and unsure of what to say or do next, then, like bellowing thunder, Terry began to laugh and cracked a smile from ear to ear, grabbing Ethan by the shoulders and violently shaking him out of sheer excitement. Ethan wasn't sure what he should be feeling. On one hand he was so relieved to see that it was Terry, that he wasn't about to die, and the thought that he had found his brothers made him ecstatic, but on the other he knew that those feelings would soon be replaced by depression and anger, as he was sure Terry would catch him up on what happened with vivid detail. For now, he was happy, though, even if the feeling _was_ fleeting.

…

Terry escorted Ethan down a narrow, dark corridor to a back room containing a small table, and proceeded to set the prospect up in the corner with an ice filled rag to put over his now swollen head. Before sitting down, Terry went back out to the bar and grabbed a round of drinks, then returned, placed them on the table, and proceeded to apply a hearty slap across Ethan's back.

"I'd be lyin' if I said I was expectin' that to be you, T," Ethan said with a smile. "How th' hell have ya been?"

"Honestly," Terry returned with a halfhearted grin. "I'm doin' a helluva lot better now that you're back."

"Where's everyone else?"

"Back at the new clubhouse. I'm assumin' if you're here then you already know about the old one?"

"Kinda." Ethan set his beer down and looked it for a moment, remembering all the good times they had before everything fell apart. "What the fuck happened, man?"

Terry straightened up in his chair and slammed a heavy fist down on the table, startling the prospect, and sending beer sloshing into the air. "Those God damn Pistoleros, that's what th' fuck happened! Burned it to the fuckin' ground and sent us runnin'."

"Who all made it out?"

"Not many." Terry leaned back and rested his hand on the table, and it became apparent he was reliving the day it all happened. "Johnny, Cricket, Gwen, Olivia an' me had just handed you off to those uppity assholes when we found out. Rode straight down, but it was too late. Club was destroyed, everyone was dead, and those assholes were waitin'. We almost didn't make it. Found out later that Quick and a couple others made it up here, so we just picked up what we could and rode north."

"Thank God."

"Listen, Cowboy… a lot's changed since you were gone. Not for the better, neither."

"How so?" Ethan took a hearty swig, then sat the glass on the table. Terry took off his dew rag and ran his fingers through greasy hair, staring at the table while trying to gather the words he needed to convey what he was about to unload.

"Quick's dead, Gwen's gone, and Johnny is losin' his shit man."

Ethan's heart sank into his stomach as he sputtered beer onto his shirt, his eyes widened, and he suddenly found the anger that had subsided bubbling back up, building just behind his eyes. "What do you mean she's gone?"

"She's gone." Terry sounded almost heartbroken. "We thought you were dead, brother. Over a year and we hadn't heard shit from you. Those assholes just took you and left. She tried so hard to get to you, but they wouldn't let her, and we couldn't exactly fight against a private army. She just lost hope. Then one day I woke up and she was gone. No note… nothin'."

Ethan was speechless; anything he could've said would have just come out unintelligible anyway. All this time he couldn't wait to see her again, she waited so long, and now there he sat, alone again. He thought he was getting closer to her with every mile he rode, but now he never felt so far away from her. So many thoughts raced through his mind, their nights together, how he wished he would've just told her how he felt, but it was too late. What could he do? Nothing. Ethan pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it up, sliding back into his chair.

"I'm sorry," Terry finally said leaning forward.

"Not your fault, T." Ethan knew that there was nothing he could do for Gwen right now, it was better to focus on what was at hand and start looking for her later. Still, though, he could feel the hatred burning deep inside him. For himself, but especially for Michael Esposito. "What happened to Quick?"

Terry sat back into his chair again and grabbed his bottle of beer, downing what seemed like half before slamming it onto the table, then he rubbed his eyes with both burly hands and drug his fingers down his face, stopping just at his chin.

"Quick was a rat."

"You're shittin' me…"

"Nope. When we finally found everyone up here in Paleto and showed up without Skid he wanted to know what happened. I told everyone what went down, and when he found out the kid was dead he just broke down. Spilled his guts about everything. Two faced shit rag had been tellin' those Pistolero fucks everything. That's how they found out we were comin'. Apparently, he intended to rejoin 'em, take the kid back with 'im, but that deal died with Skid."

"Jesus Christ. Sold out his brothers, and his own nephew paid the price."

"In blood, no less. After Johnny found out, he took 'im down to the beach and... well… Quick didn't come back."

It was shocking to say the least, of all the people it could've been, Quick really wasn't too high on the list of potential traitors, and even though Ethan knew about the rat he would've never guessed it was someone so high up in the charter. The Lost had suffered set backs before, that was evident after Trevor nearly killed Johnny, even going back to when they were forced to leave Liberty City, but for them to go into hiding the way they did, Quick's deceit must have nearly wiped them out.

The two sat in total silence for a few seconds, the only sounds being deep breathes that came from the prospect sitting in the corner of the room, nursing a grotesque gash that Ethan had given him across the face. From studying the boy's features, it was clear he couldn't have been older than 19, probably not even old enough to order a beer, yet here he was trying to prove himself to an MC he likely knew nothing about. It was kids like this that made Ethan feel older than he was, not because he had been living the life since he was in high school, but because the mentality about the lifestyle just seemed to have changed, even here in a world so far from his own. What once used to be about brotherhood, camaraderie to one another, and a sense of belonging had turned into nothing more than chest pounding, expensive motorcycles, and a struggle for money. Even when he had no money, Ethan knew that his friends were still the one thing he would always be able to count on. Sitting in the room with Terry, though, not knowing were Jack or Mark were at, and now not even knowing where Gwen was, he felt more desolate than ever.

"Alright," Terry declared, chugging the remainder of his beer. "Let's get the fuck outta here. I got your cuts back at the new place"

Terry smiled at Ethan, then stood up and grabbed his vest from the chair, throwing it on and motioning to the prospect that it was time for them to leave. As the young man walked passed him, Ethan looked at his name patch, and in bright white letters saw that it read "FUBAR". He was reminded of Skid for some reason, maybe it was the way he walked, or maybe it was just the age, who knew, but one thing was for sure, Ethan promised himself that he wouldn't get attached to this one. It was a hard realization, but it was best in this lifestyle that he not foster a fondness for anyone before they proved they weren't so easily killable. Ethan stood from his chair, downed his drink, and started walking behind Terry. As the trio approached the bar door, Terry waved at the barkeep, who shot a wave back, and even made sure to grin at Ethan before they stepped out in the cold, barren street.

"Bikes are 'round back, parked in a garage," Terry said throwing a thumb over his shoulder. As the monster of a man turned, Ethan saw a patch in the lower left of his vest that read _In Loving Memory of Skid 1996-2016._ "C'mon, pull yours back here real quick."

"Actually," Ethan started. "I've gotta take care of somethin' first. Here's my number again, shoot me directions, I'll be there by dawn."

Ethan told Terry his cell phone number, and the two joked a bit more before getting ready to go their separate ways for the time being. As they parted one another's company, Terry and Ethan grabbed one another by the hand, pulling themselves for a quick back pat before letting go as Terry said, "You sure you can't tell me where yer headed?"

"Nah," replied Ethan with a solemn grin. "You'll see when I get back."

"Ride safe, brother."

"You too, T."

As Terry and the prospect disappeared around the building, Ethan returned to his bike and started the beast up with a press of the ignition, letting it roar to life in the empty streets before taking off towards the backside of town. Deep inside he was devastated at the news of Gwen's disappearance, it had nearly stripped away what little hope he had left, but finding Terry helped to lessen the pain, if only a little. As Ethan rode into the night he let the cool air rush across his head and through his scraggly beard, hoping that maybe someone at the club would be able to at least point him in the right direction.

 _I'm gonna make this right,_ he thought to himself. _I'm gonna make all this right._

 **Finally, back at it again. My apologizes for the extended absence, but I'm hoping to make this a weekly thing now that I have some free time with my job. This chapter was a little slow, but I suppose that's what I get after disappearing for a year. Everyone enjoy, and be sure to favorite or follow the story if you like it!**


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